


Bertie's Bond

by LadyKeane



Series: Bertie's Blog [5]
Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blogging, Bohemians, F/F, F/M, M/M, New York New York!, Not Actually VidCon, Not Actually Walt Whitman, Not actually famous Youtubers, Scheming Aunts, Virulent text messages, clumsy biblical allegories, courtroom drama llama, graphic descriptions of Jewish cuisine, grumpy vicars and cheeky nandos, horrible men who are horrible, lurid poetry, lurid romance novels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-28
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2020-05-28 09:03:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 38,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19390885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKeane/pseuds/LadyKeane
Summary: The third installment of the blog written by everyone's favourite blithering millennial, Bertie Wooster.





	1. Chapter 1

**27TH JUNE**

They say (whoever the fuzzy, indeterminate ‘They’ are) that there is a first time for everything. Now I think on it, it’s rather amazing to consider the extent of what this adage can apply to: everything from one’s first sampling of salty Greek olives, to one’s first game of laser tag, to the initial butterflies in an adolescent’s gut when they discover the horrors of romantic attraction.  
I myself have embarked on three First Times in the past few hours: my first taste of chipotle-ranch-flavoured crisps (pleasant but confusing), my first serious perusal of ‘Fifty Shades of Factory Girl’ (torrid stuff!), and my first ever blog entry made at 10,000 metres.

In case you have not yet deduced it, readers, I currently find myself squeezed into an airline seat, my knees scrunched up somewhere in the vicinity of my ears, high over the Atlantic Ocean. Reg and I are on our way to my second favourite city in the world, the _grande pomme_ herself, for ViralFest 2019.

For those not in the know, ViralFest is an annual gathering of vloggers, bloggers, content creators, and other internet whiz kids to discuss and celebrate all things, well, viral. I remember the first ViralFest back in the late 2000s, little more than a soiree of on-line chums sharing notes on their view counts and editing woes. Now it’s a gargantuan event, attracting sponsors, celebrities and great throngs of eager punters.  
And yes, Reg _has_ agreed to come along with me, of his own accord. True, we will also be taking in an opera at the Met, and probably a few romantic strolls through Central Park, but I insist that he is still fulfilling his duty as loyal, supportive boyfriend.

You will probably be no more surprised than I was to find out that this is the first leave Reg has taken from his role as London’s best solicitor for more than four years (barring Christmas and bank holidays, mind you). His firm partner Mister Seppings practically booted him out the door, with clear instructions not to come back until he was thoroughly unwound and refreshed.  
  
You see, Reg recently made an absolute pile from overseeing the profitable and utterly excruciating divorce proceedings of Lord Percy Craye, the Earl of Worplesdon, from his wife. Non-disclosure prevents me from sharing details, but I feel quite justified in saying that Lord Percy is such a sadistic old rotter that he makes P. E. lessons, shark attacks, and lectures from my Aunt Agatha seem like afternoon naps on a sunny terrace.  
Many was the night that my poor Reg would come home, wrecked and wearied, after bearing Lord Percy’s never-ending stream of demands. Just as I had managed to feed and soothe and back-rub him into some kind of contentment, the inevitable early-morning phone call or surprise e-mail would invade our little sanctum. I mean, what sort of lunatic truly needs to have a clause relating to a dusty old family heirloom revised at half-five in the ack emma?

Anyway, we have put all that fever and fret behind us, and look forward to a good solid month or so of touristing it up in dear old NY. We’ve also scored lodgings from Uncle Tom. He keeps a nifty little apartment in Stuyvesant Towers on the Upper East Side, and though it’s cluttered with all of the geek paraphernalia that Aunt Dahlia refuses to let through the doors of Brinkley Court, we shall be most grateful to set up camp there.

Also, just prior to our departure, I managed to pick up a tag-along: Bingo Little sits next to me now, snoring and drooling in his own cramped airline seat (I insisted that he be the one to sit on the aisle). He had caught wind of a rumour that R. M. Banks, the famously reclusive author of the ‘Factory Girl’ franchise, would be making her first public appearance at ViralFest (ah, yet another First Time!). Bingo pleaded with me to let him come with us, quite literally falling to his knees and coiling himself about the willowy Wooster leg. I managed to avert any further hysterics, which was quite fortunate, as we were on an escalator in Marks & Spencer at the time.

I do confess to a keen pang of regret at letting the old bean gatecrash our lovers’ retreat. However, I don’t think I can overstate Bingo’s adoration of ‘Fifty Shades of Factory Girl’. He’s a changed man: one short year ago, he was still bouncing from crush to crush, like some confused and amorous ping pong ball. Now, he spends his evenings holed up with his laptop, fanboying away on Tumblr, writing ‘Factory Girl’ fan fiction, and generally shunning polite society for R.M. Banks’ sordid little universe. (Not that I judge. Cousin Angela went through something similar in secondary school, with the dishy protagonists of a Japanese anime series. These characters all had wild, rainbow-coloured hairstyles and a penchant for soliloquising.)

It proved quite difficult to break the news to Reg. The revelation came only this morning, when Bingo showed up at our flat with a suitcase, a twinkle in his eye and a venti mocha mudslide in his clutches. My man’s regal brow did a masterful impersonation of two irate mongooses rearing to attack one another. Insult to injury was the jacket Bingo had donned: a whimsical teal tartan with a hint of magenta (I confess that I myself incurred a slight headache from the garment).  
Once we’ve unpacked at the apartment, and Bingo has biffed off to visit a filming location from one of the ‘Factory Girl’ movies or something, I’m sure Reg will start talking to me again. Dash it, he must understand how hard it is to say no to a Drone in distress.

Anyway, in spite of this development, I am feeling optimistic about our holiday. It is the First Time Reg and I have travelled as a couple, and I am hoping for much unwinding, sightseeing and general canoodling. Not to mention the chance to spiff up my Instagram with some enviable and supremely likeable snaps.

I shall fill you in as our journey progresses, but for now, I'll spend the rest of the flight making a second attempt to push through ‘Factory Girl’. I still have four and a half bloody novels to go. Do wish me luck.


	2. Chapter 2

**30TH JUNE**

I believe that I last left you, readers, in the sardine-ish confines of a Boeing 747 somewhere around the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. So, I'm glad to report that Reg, Bingo and self soon alighted upon American soil, dropped our bags in Uncle Tom’s pad and made an attempt to right our body clocks. The very next morning, we were up with the lark to hove our way to the Jacob K. Javits Convention Centre, for the first day of ViralFest 2019.

Even in the early hours, the place was thrumming with visitors. If you have ever been to one of these behemoth conventions before, I’m sure you can imagine the spectacle: many a clump of milling attendees wearing cargo shorts and rucksacks, drifting from one brightly coloured promotional stand to another, ‘neath the high ceilings of a yawning great conference hall.

Not that this Bertram was just another member of the peanut gallery, oh no. As something of a luminary in the lighthearted-anecdotal-vlogging-and-or-blogging sphere, I had been especially invited to partake in a panel on such media, as part of the ViralFest program.  
We were slated for 1pm, which left me free to browse the expo hall for the whole morning.

Bingo quickly bid us adieu to begin his hunt for R. M. Banks, so I gleefully dragged Reg about to collect free samples, and gawk at all the natty recording devices and apps being demonstrated. A healthy chunk of my attention was given over to this neat little motion capture setup which rendered one’s image into a whole range of high-definition barnyard animals. I acquired some rather waggish footage of self as a pig and of Reg as a somewhat diffident horse. How they managed to engineer the thing to so faithfully reproduce the flick of a scornful eyebrow on that equine mug, I’ll never know.  
'Eh Reg, why the long face?' (Oink, oink.)  
'Most amusing Bertram. You are a total ham.'

The time for our panel came, and I was collected by one of the event coordinators. I was quite surprised by the healthy turnout for the event. I would attribute it partly to the relatable content and human interest factor of the genre, and partly to the presence of Ms Janey Marvel, the feted crazy dog lady of Youtube, who boasts an unparalleled gift for gluing objects to her face. Even the other panel members were a tad star-struck: my fellow British vloggers Dab & Ethan were all geeky stammers and glazed expressions in her presence. (Dear old crumpets, Dab & Ethan. We have oft rubbed shoulders at similar such events, and the three of us even shared a chummy mocha mudslide as we waited at Heathrow for our flight.) While the convo on storytelling style and author authenticity was quite stimulating, I confess my energy started to flag during the Q&A session. It seemed all the audience wanted to know about was the private life of Janey’s miniature schnauzers, and whether Dab & Ethan had ever snogged.

After taking our leave from the giggly inquisition, we crashed together in the backstage area, where snack foods and caffeine boosts were kindly provided. Bingo had drifted back by this time, and I managed to sneak him in, as well.  
‘Any luck in your search for the great Banks, then?’  
He shook his head glumly. 'I ran into a strapping, masterful lass dressed all in black and sunglasses, but she turned out to be a part of the security team.' His gaze flitted about furtively. 'Actually, if I see her again, maybe you could say that I'm your P.A. or something?'  
  
Once we’d grabbed our armfuls of refreshments, we plopped down with the other vloggers upon a circle of whimsically coloured couches.  
‘Hey Bertie!’ Came a midwest-tinged hail to the right side of me. ‘I hear you’re good buddies with Boko Fittleworth! How is the old fella?’  
My chipotle-ranch crisps went flying, as I beheld the bespectacled, stubbled map of one Ian Viridian, the Grand Poo-Bah of all Vlogdom and co-founder of ViralFest. You’ve probably seen his pithy, four-minute video essays addressed to his boffiny brother Frank. To those of us in the vlogging game, the man is practically a messiah.

I felt my tongue mount a rebellion, as I tried to offer a civil reply.  
'Oh! Er, um... quite well, Mister Viridian, quite well... He just upgraded his pet gouramis to a fancy new tank, don't you know and, uh-'  
'-Richard Little, Mister Viridian, though my pals call me Bingo. I must tell you what a signal honour it is to meet you. Why, I must have read "Pulp Hamlets" at least a dozen times.'  
Bingo had shoved a tartan-cased arm in front of my face, and was shaking Ian's hand like a wet dog.  
I could feel the other vloggers slipping me stink-eyes. After the intensity of the panel, the last thing they wanted now was another manic Fan polluting their down-time.  
  
Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, the growing resentment against my 'P.A.' was interrupted by the arrival of Cora Bellinger, aka _*~*~Belliboo~*~*,_ and her own 'P.A.'  
'Tuppy Glossop,' I said frostily.  
'Wooster. Long time no see.' Tuppy curtly shoved Dab & Ethan off the couch to make room for his girlfriend, and she alighted gracefully to pick at her unicorn pretzel. Tuppy slumped down on her right, while another polished and dewy beauty vlogger (Yazilla? Yazolla? Something like that) perched to her left.  
  
'Tuppy's been promoting my brand,' said _*~*~Belliboo~*~*. '_ We've just launched an exciting new range of scented bronzers, which will be promoted on the main stage tomorrow. You're all quite welcome to attend the session, of course.'  
'Scented bronzers?' I gawped.  
Tuppy rattled off the scents. 'There's Tropical Breeze, English Rose, Toffee Pudding, Dusk-Light, Cherry-Bomb, and Hemsworth.'  
Ian made a face. 'What does Hemsworth smell like?'  
'Eucalyptus and protein powder.'  
'Eurgh!' Bingo supplied. 'Who's going to buy that!?'  
Janey Marvel snickered. 'Hey, I kinda like the idea of shimmery skin and smelling like a health food store. That's basically goals if you live in SoCal.'  
'I'm more curious about Dusk-Light,' said Dab. 'Is that anything like Goth Juice?'  
'Ah,' Tuppy rubbed his hands with glee. 'That little gold-mine is in fact a licensing deal I managed to strike up with the copyright holders to the "Dusk-Light" series. Fans of cheesy vampire romance will be able to sparkle like Edgar Killin, and smell like an alpine glade!'

It was at this point that I took note of a nervous little brunet fellow in a cardigan, hunched next to Ian Viridian. He had remained silent throught the whole exchange. But at the mention of the notorious vampire series, his eyes, already magnified by thick spectacles, tripled in size. They shone with an intensity that I'm sure could rival _~*~Belliboo~*~*'s_ bronzers. I suppose he was another P.A. or something? At any rate, he seemed eager to part with his money for the chance to sparkle and stink.  
'Better "Dusk-light" than that "Factory Girl" crap, I suppose,' Janey muttered, and beside me I could feel Bingo's hackles priming themselves. I silently prayed that the conversation would not veer further in this direction.  
Of course, I was underestimating the propensity for people to rip on an easy target.  
'Yeah, what would that smell like? Leather and sump oil?' suggested Dab.  
'Such a stupid book,' added Tuppy.

'Now see here!' Bingo actually launched himself from his seat, chest puffed out and stance wide for his big moment. His bright eyes flashed, and he tossed his raven curls. 'I'll not hear another harsh word against the genius of R. M. Banks! Yes, perhaps her characters do not exemplify the ideal of a perfect relationship. But that is precisely why the books speak to people so profoundly! Mabel and Mister Gunmetal are multi-faceted, beautifully flawed characters, who evoke Byronic anti-heroes and embattled Gothic heroines in a modern world. R. M. Banks' passionate prose is raw, and monstrous, and the perfect antidote to our culture's current obsession with sanctimonious displays of morality!'

I must say, I was stunned. That was the most impressive thing I'd ever heard Bingo say, since his treatise on the many virtues of chip-and-gravy butties, made during a lunch break back at Eton.  
Yazilla-or-Yazolla let go of an awestruck 'Ooooh.'  
Bingo's tirade had attracted the stares of a few other VIPs. On the off chance that security would start asking questions about my 'P.A.', I found this a fitting time to skedaddle.

Back out in the expo hall, I lugged Bingo along by his tartan sleeve through the crowds, as I texted Reg to come meet us. My phone remained silent for several minutes - I wondered whether he had become absorbed in some high-brow presentation or another. (As far as I know, Youtube has a healthy little community of classic menswear aficionados...) We scouted about, keeping our eyes peeled for a large, dark head of hair gliding gracefully above the throng, to no avail. My heart soon started to hammer, as visions of my Reg being trampled by a rogue mob of frenzied mobile gamers teased at my imagination.

As it happens, the fate that had befallen my beloved was much, much worse.  
We skirted past the designated meet-and-greet area, which was swamped by a legion of fawning fans. I falsely assumed they were there for some sponsored style influencer or another.  
One of the girls in the crowd examined me. 'Hey! It's Bertie! He's the one who writes about Jeeves!'  
  
The feeling of several dozen pairs of eyes suddenly turning my way with hungry intensity is one I am sadly familiar with. I can attest that the swoopy, nerve jangling fight-or-flight reaction does not fade with time. I was set upon by this mass of mania, with people clamouring to shake my hand or hug me or have me sign their rucksacks, t-shirts, cleavage et al.  
It turns out that Reg had been recognised by the followers of this very blog. As he was submerged under a freak tidal wave of fans, the whole mess was corralled over to one of the meet-and-greet stations by an officious staff member.  
Frightened for him, I managed to handshake and autograph my way to the epicentre of the chaos. I found him trapped behind a table, signing autograph after autograph.

To those readers who were witness to this scene, please know how grateful we are for your admiration. It's awfully heartening to know that my little videos and write-ups are so well received, and I hope they continue to bring you all a bit of joy. I was particularly chuffed with the gifts of American candy, not to mention the lass who'd drawn a picture of Reg and I in the period threads we'd worn in our little 'Dunstan Priory' spot.  
However. Reg may look robust, and in many respects he is, but I would entreaty you to not spook him, shout at him, or otherwise saddle him with wild-eyed outbursts. The old boy bears enough burden in his day to day life, and deserves gentler treatment than that.  
In between smiles and nods and handshakes, I extracted him from the rabble of admirers, and we zipped out via backstage.

*

To soothe Reg's jangled nerves, we spent the rest of the afternoon taking in some classic Manhattan sights. The only other time my man had visited New York had been on a business trip, with no leisure time allotted. So, I resolved to have our vagabond shoes stray, right through the very heart of it.  
I used this afternoon to cover the basics. We hopped on the subway to the Theater District, and ambled along towards the Rockerfeller Center. (And in case you were wondering, yes, my Instagram enjoyed a healthy addition of content from this jaunt.) Reg eventually managed to sniff out the MoMA, so we rounded out the day with a dose of melting clocks and starry nights.  
Eventually, our tartan-clad third wheel started to squeak. Somehow, I don't think the paintings held Bingo's interest much.  
'I'm starving. There's supposed to be a fabulous Jewish delicatessen near here.'

Bingo's approximation of 'near here' ultimately required half a dozen subway stops and a ten minute walk. We entered Fitzy's Deli on East Houston Street as footsore, grumbly pilgrims. But let me tell you now, the moment I sunk my teeth into their famous pastrami on rye, it was like a deliverance. Savoury, tender meat, malty, soft bread, and oodles of crispy chips. Even their coleslaw was drool-worthy.  
Once I'd emerged from my food coma, I was lucid enough to finally soak in the surroundings. Earthy and old-school, the joint evoked the epics of Nora Ephron and Woody Allen (at least his early funny ones). Reg was lingering over his voluptuous Reuben sandwich, while Bingo made chit-chat with a coy red-haired waitress.  
'First time in Noo Yawk?'  
'Oh, rather. I do quite like how straight your streets are.'  
'You oughta see 'em during Pride, hon!'  
She shrieked with laughter at her own wit, and Bingo looked to me for assistance.  
'It's a joke, old thing.'  
'Right ho.'

The bell above the door jingled, and in shuffled a surprisingly familiar face: the nervous little fellow in the cardigan, Ian Viridian's P.A.  
The waitress held up a salutary hand. 'Hiya Randy.'  
'Hey Roz. Just the usual, thanks.'  
'You got it!'  
She flounced off, and I turned a chummy smile onto the wee chap. 'What ho! You're Ian's pal, yes? Please, come join us.'

He squeezed in next to Bingo. 'How ya doin'. Randy Birnbaum.'  
Bingo snorted with giggles. 'Randy is British slang for "lustful", don't you know!'  
Randy smirked, and his face turned beet red.  
'Well, if you ever pop over to old Blighty, you'd do well to go on the pull!' I offered.  
'Man, you English guys. I love the funny way you talk. Say, how do you like Fitzy's?'  
'This is sacred ground,' Bingo declared. 'I feel honoured to even be breathing this air.'  
'Huh?' Randy squeaked. I think all of us were a little puzzled at this.

'Fitzy's is where R. M. Banks wrote the first draft of "Fifty Shades of Factory Girl". Likely in this very booth, perhaps even in the very spot where you're sitting now, Randy... one of the greatest literary voices of our generation birthed her first masterpiece, while noshing on bagels and coffee!'  
Randy's eyes fell to the table. 'Oh yeah, you're real keen on those books, huh?'  
'Are you a bookworm at all, Randy?'  
Randy shrugged. 'I read.'  
'Oh, then I wonder if you've ever had the chance to peruse the adventures of Anita Blake?...'

I zoned out at this point. Now that Bingo had a victim to inflict his fanboying on, Reg and I begged off, telling the dope that we'd meet him back at the apartment.

*

The apartments of Stuyvesant Towers boast spiffing art deco architecture, along with enviable skyline views. I'm not sure how well that matches with Uncle Tom's prints of several notable Starfleet captains, his maquettes of Kryten and Marvin the Paranoid Android, or his life-size replica of the TARDIS.

Dropping onto the sofa, I rested my weary flippers on the coffee table, and clutched at a galaxy-print cushion. 'I'm sorry about today, Reg. I wanted this trip to be relaxing for you, and it's turned into another bally round of sound and fury.'  
He had the grace to offer a resilient half-smile. 'It has not all been bad, my rugelach. You were quite gallant to have rescued me from that "meet-and-greet" experience.' (There was no missing the quotation marks he put around the term.) 'And it appears that Mister Little has found a suitable distraction, in his crusade to pay tribute to the "Factory Girl" series.'  
'Well, whatever gets him out from under our feet, what?'  
'After ViralFest is over, I look forward to more stimulating activities. You would not be averse to visiting other museums? The American Museum of Natural History is running an exhibition on the fossils of early humans.'  
'Sounds riveting. If it's all about prehistoric man-apes, we might even bump into a few prospective Drones!'  
'Perish the thought, Bertram.'


	3. Chapter 3

**2ND JULY**

On the morn of ViralFest Day Two, I was wrested from my slumber by the ping of a bright-and-early text message. I extracted myself out from underneath Reg and scanned the offending missive, with the grim intent to fire off a barrage of angry emojis.  
It turned out to be from the ViralFest staff. One of the musical acts scheduled to perform on the main stage that day had been detained: Euclid and the Vectors were currently stranded at some regional airport in Missouri. Something about the tyres of their plane melting into the tarmac. As you can guess, the poor staff members were tearing their extremities off in the effort to find a stopgap.  
I assured them that I and my trusty Roland would rally round (the Wooster code could hardly allow me to turn my back on such a stew). I threw on some fresh togs and turned on the coffee pot, valiantly sacrificing my morning cuddle with Reg.

In a few short minutes, I was gulping down the last of the bracing as I yanked on my loafers. Just as I managed to lope to the front door, the sharp buzz of the intercom jolted me like some ethically dubious lab test.  
'Bertie,' greeted _*~*~Belliboo~*~*_ , thrusting a box of unicorn pretzels into my hands. 'I must say I'm quite pleasantly surprised to see you up so... early...'  
Her prim salutation slackened as she took in the decor of the apartment. Her eyes landed on the maquettes of Kryten and Marvin with not a little discomfort.  
'How can I help you, old thing?' I said through a mouthful of pretzel.

She sat upon the arm of the sofa, and averted her eyes from the androids. 'I have a boon to crave. You recall that I had made the acquaintance of _♥Yazelle♥_ yesterday?' ( _♥Yazelle♥!_ That was it! I knew it was some strategic configuration of a z and a y.)  
'Seemed like the strong, silent type to me,' I remarked.  
'Indeed. Well, she later confided in me that Bingo made something of an impression on her. In fact, she called him a total Hemsworth.'  
I tutted a sympathetic tut. 'Ah, caught a touch of Little Fever, has she? Well, can't be helped. It's happened to the best of us. Like chicken pox, I guess. Give it a few days and I'm sure she'll shake it off.'  
'No, Bertie! I want you to help me set them up! It's clear how fond of you Bingo has always been. The two of you share a bond that Tuppy's never been able to match.'  
'Possibly because I never dunked Bingo's head down the toilet back in primary school.'  
Her expression flickered a touch at this image, but she pushed on, grabbing a pretzel from the box in my hands.  
'I want you to bend Bingo's ear today at ViralFest, and put in a good word for _♥Yazelle♥_. I have a view to setting them up on a date tonight. Tell him how pretty you think she is, or something.'  
  
A dash of warm fuzziness bloomed in my chest. The _*~*~Belliboo~*~*_ I had known til now was a selfish creature, more likely to steal a friend's beau rather than bring hapless lovers together. While I was unsure whether the two prospective flames were really well-suited, I still couldn't help but be moved by _*~*~Belliboo~*~*'s_ first clumsy foray into philanthropy.  
'Well, Cora, I must say, it's quite sweet of you to make this gesture.'  
'Yes. It is.'  
'But, well...'  
' _Well!?_...'  
'Are you certain that Bingo would really be any good for your pal? You have to admit, he is a tad fickle at the best of times. Not to mention his current preoccupation with that blasted book series.'

Our eyes locked, and with her long-nailed fingers, she snapped her helpless pretzel in twain. Flecks of pastel-coloured icing went flying, some hitting Kryten in the face. 'I don't believe you are the one with the right to decide that.'  
I decided to tread lightly. 'Ah. Well. You do raise a point there. I shall think very seriously on it. Anyway, really must dash. I'm standing in for the nerd rock band who's stranded in the heartland.'  
'I know,' she said, 'you're the opening act to my scented bronzer showcase.'

*

After hauling my Roland into a cab, it was not long til I found myself being bustled about by the frazzled ViralFest staff, and propped up on the main stage. The miffed glares of several dozen Euclid and the Vectors fans were there to greet me. Without a set list, I contritely began trotting out some of the usual suspects: i.e. ‘Ginger Headed Sailors’, ‘Puttin’ on the Ritz’, ‘All That Jazz’, ‘I like Bananas (Because They Have No Bones)’ etc etc. The Vectors fans eventually got tired of staring daggers at me, and melted into the crowd. I supposed old standards weren’t quite the thing for this scene, and so I gave Weird Al’s ‘My Bolonga’ a go. That at least earned a smattering of applause from a few ageing bronies.

Soon, I discerned the familiar form of Bingo Little weaving about the expo hall, no doubt still searching for his elusive idol. As I noodled my way from Yankovic to Gershwin, I thought back on _*~*~Belliboo~*~*_ 's words that morning.  
Bingo’s usual behaviour of going through love affairs like lavatory paper was certainly not the healthiest habit. However, a chap must have a sense of purpose in life. At least these little melodramas that Bingo created for himself kept him busy. Long have I hoped that one day, my friend will find a lover who will stick with him. Someone grounded and shrewd to balance out Bingo’s whimsy, a Mole to his Rattie. Perhaps this _♥_ _Yazelle_ _♥_ filly wasn’t The One, but a date with her could well have been the thing to get Bingo back in the saddle, leaving him open to finding Mr-or-Ms-or-Mx Right.

It was rather poignant to watch Bingo’s hopeless hunt for R. M. Banks, seeing him approach several robust, red-haired women, only to receive unkind reproaches and vicious knockbacks. I crooned another Gershwin song and ached for the poor numpty:

 _There’s a saying old, says that love is blind_  
_Still, we’re often told ‘Seek and ye shall find’_  
_So I’m going to seek a certain lad I’ve had in mind_  
_Looking everywhere, haven’t found him yet_  
_He’s the big affair I cannot forget_  
_Only man I ever think of with regret_  
_I’d like to add his initial to my monogram_  
_Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?_

A loud crash sounded, as a spunky ginger lass in combat boots knocked Bingo back into a stand of novelty phone cases. Luckily, Randy Birnbaum was at hand, and dredged him out of the bedazzled wreckage.

Once my set was over, I beat a hasty escape away from the main stage. I had no desire to stick around for _*~*~Belliboo~*~*_ 's presentation, lest Tuppy spy me and deem me fit to be a suitable ‘volunteer’.  
Out by the food trucks, I came upon Bingo and Randy sharing some overpriced nachos. I hailed them a warm what ho.  
‘Keeping out of trouble?’ I asked them.  
‘Not exactly,’ Bingo mumbled. ‘Thank goodness for Randy here, he’s a solid fellow to have in a bind. That vendor with the phone cases demanded I pay for damages. A few smooth words from Randy, and I was fished right out of the soup!’

I regarded the frumpy little man with a new found respect. I suppose those thick glasses of his did hint at the possession of a ponderous intellect, if I know my tropes.  
‘Did you know that Randy has lived in New York all his life, and has never once been to visit the Statue of Liberty?’  
Instead of being affronted by this, Randy seemed to find Bingo’s wonderment amusing. ‘You know how it is. You live in a city, and work, and commute, and never manage to make time for things like that.’  
‘I suppose so. I myself have never been to see the great sights of London. Madame Tussaud’s, Ripley’s Believe It Or Not, M&Ms World in Leicester Square…’ He paused to crunch on a pensive corn chip. ‘Randy, my good man, I’m taking you along with me to see good Lady Liberty tonight!’

This declaration jolted my mind back to _*~*~Belliboo~*~*'s_ scheme. I had to nip this in the bud.  
‘Uh, speaking of ladies… that _♥_ _Yazelle_ _♥_ lass from yesterday was quite a pippin, wasn’t she?’  
Bingo scoffed. ‘If you’re into that bland, basic sort of bimbo.’  
‘Oh come now, Bingo, I though she was a perfectly nice girl! In fact, she was rather keen on you, as far as I could tell. Why don’t you ask her on a date tonight instead? You could take her to Fitzy’s. She’s clearly a “Factory Girl” fan, so you could regale her with all manner of R. M. Banks-related lore.’  
He kicked at this, with all the kickiness he could muster. ‘If you’re so keen, why don’t _you_ take her out? Randy and I shall be busy tonight.’  
Sparing a thought for _*~*~Belliboo~*~*'s_ sharp, pretzel-dismembering acrylics, I persevered. ‘Don’t be childish, Bingo. I really do think a date would do you some good.’  
‘How, exactly?’  
I sat down next to him and grabbed a soggy corn chip. ‘I know you well, Bingo. Yes, quite well. I know that you are dependent on your Uncle Mortimer, for one thing. I also know that the thirty-year-old brandy and fifty-year-old port in his liquor cabinet are, in fact, flat Irn-Bru and undiluted Ribena, respectively.’

Yes, yes, I know. It was dashed slimy of me to pull out this sort of gambit. But I had Bingo’s future to think about. Aunt Dahlia was never shy about metering out a spot of blackmail to ensure I studied for my A Levels.  
At any rate, the guilt started sizzling away in my chest, even before Bingo and Randy levelled me with the soupiest of soupy looks. ‘You cad, Wooster!’  
‘Trust me Bingo, this is entirely for your benefit. You’ll thank me later.’  
‘You sound like my mom,’ Randy shuddered.  
_‘_ _♥_ _Yazelle_ _♥_ _,_ Bingo. Tonight at Fitzy’s. Don’t forget, old boy,’ I warned him, and I took my leave as he narrowed his eyes at me.

After a merry while spent over at the gaming lounge, I was set upon by the divine Miss _*~*~B~*~*_ , obviously fresh from her successful hawking of sparkly face gunk. ‘Bertie,’ she cooed, with all the gentle sweetness of a lioness gorging on the innards of a felled antelope. ‘I take it you had a friendly word with Bingo?’  
I turned to behold her entourage, which included a beaming _♥_ _Yazelle_ _♥_ clutching Bingo’s hand. He looked as if someone had taken all the most prized Pokémon cards of his childhood collection and chucked them in a paper shredder.  
I turned back to _*~*~Belliboo~*~*_ and nodded uneasily.  
‘Splendid. Well, I have a meet-and-greet to attend in twenty minutes, for which I need to refresh my make-up. Must look my best for the fans. Thanks ever so, Bertie.’  
A long-nailed hand squeezed my shoulder briefly, and I took the slight punctures made by her claws as a fitting start to my penance. As she flounced away backstage, Bingo too was dragged off by his new sweetheart.

As I left the convention center that evening, I encountered Randy, slouched against a concrete pillar, his head buried in a well-loved copy of ‘Dusk-Light’. I reined in my instinct to keep him company – as lonely as he looked, I reasoned that my presence would likely not be welcome.

*

You may be asking, readers, where my Reg was during all of this turmoil. Given the events of the previous day, he had opted to sit out the remainder of ViralFest, and had spent most of the day lounging about in a reputable Lexington Avenue cafe with an improving book (at least that’s what he told me. I shall be quite pipped if I find out that he was sneaking in some surreptitious work on his laptop). By the end of the day, I half-regretted that I had not joined him.

Thankfully, my troubles were forgotten as my man and I dined out at The Plaza Hotel, and then took a leisurely ankle through Central Park. I’m sure there must be a few sad sacks out there who would remain unmoved by the splendours that New York has to offer. But if one’s heart could not be cheered by a plate of lobster macaroni, a star-dappled summer sky, and a snog on the Gapstow Bridge, one would have to be a first rate _meshuggeneh_.

‘Is everything alright, my hummingbird?’  
‘Ah, Reg. With your usual acumen, you’ve detected the wasp in my honey-pot. It’s old Bingo. Cora Bellinger talked me into setting him up with one of her vulgar vlogger chums. At first, I thought it would be good medicine for Bingo to get back into the dating game. But once I’d schlepped the two schmucks together, I realised my blunder. Bingo was just starting to forge a beautiful friendship with that Randy Birnbaum _mensch_. Now, through my usual klutzy attempts at yenta-hood, that’s all gone _farkakte!_ ’

Reg’s brow flickered. ‘Firstly, I must say how impressed I am by your sudden command of Yiddish vernacular, Bertram. But I would hate for you to be hard on yourself over a matter such as this. To paraphrase the adage, you can lead Mr Little to a paramour, but you can’t make him maintain his interest.’  
‘Are you comparing Bingo to a horse?’  
‘It would appear so.’  
‘Ah. Well… I suppose you’re right. Bingo’s inability to form long-term bonds may actually be useful to shake off this girl. I mean, she has a “Live Laugh Love” tattoo, Reg!’  
‘Most disturbing, Bertram.’

*

We returned to the apartment, only to encounter a cross and bellicose Bingo. He was crumpled on the sofa with a family pack of Twinkies and a frown like a Monday morning commuter.  
‘Date with _♥_ _Yazelle_ _♥_ go alright?’ I know I was being insanely optimistic.  
‘”For my benefit”, was it, Wooster? This whole fiasco was even worse than the time you dared me to toboggan down the Spanish Steps!’  
I had not exactly anticipated fireworks between Bingo and _♥_ _Yazelle_ _♥_ _,_ but I had been hopeful that the two could at least have passed an amiable evening together. With my heart in my loafers, I plopped down next to Bingo, as Reg judiciously moved to make tea.  
‘My dear fellow, what happened!?’  
  
‘Well. For starters, I take her to the best Jewish deli in all of New York, and she has the gall to order a green salad. Kept casting a reproachful eye upon my corned beef sandwich. I, being a brave soldier, do my best to keep up the chatter, and all she can do is smile and nod! I tell you, I had a more stimulating conversation with that red-haired waitress! Speaking of which, did you know that Roz’s family has owned Fitzy’s for four generations? Her great grandmother’s family came over from Slovakia, and-‘  
‘Alright, Bingo. But what else?’  
‘Yes, right. So we’re halfway through the meal, and by now we’ve dwindled to awkward silence, staring down at our plates. And who should turn up but Randy! For a moment I took it as a godsend. I was about to ditch the date and take him out on the town as I had originally wished to. But in his clutches is a massive bouquet of cabbage roses, and a look of resolve in his eyes! I’ve been there before, and I could tell that the chap meant business. I was so aghast, I legged it out of the deli right away.’

Bingo angrily tossed the half-empty Twinkie packet down on the coffee table. ‘I can’t believe that a sensible soul like Randy would want to waste his time and affections on someone like _♥_ _Yazelle_ _♥_ _._ She has all the charisma and originality of a paperclip! I was hoping to see the sights of New York with my charming new chum. But now he’ll be preoccupied with that fathead of a vlogger! Well, he’s welcome to her!’  
The heat in Bingo’s words seemed a tad excessive, for people who were mere acquaintances. Really, he’d only just met the both of them the day before.  
‘I am sorry to hear that the evening was a disappointment, Mr Little.’ Reg glided in, bearing a steaming pot of tea. ‘Perhaps you would care for some Earl Grey?’  
‘No, thank you. I think I’d rather be alone to brew with my thoughts.’  
His bedroom door thunked closed behind him.

I took a flabbergasted sip of tea. ‘Will whammies never cease, Reg! While I’d been expending all my brain cells and blood sugar on pairing Bingo up with _*~*~Belliboo~*~*’s_ crony, all this time, she’s been the darling of wee Randy Birnbaum’s bosom! Poor Bingo – spurned for what must be the umpteenth time in his young life.’

Reg set his own cup back down on the coffee table and patted my hand. ‘Bertram, my silk scarf, I believe you and Mr Little are both mistaken in your assumptions about this turmoil.’  
‘Oh? How so?’  
‘Based on the information at hand, it appears obvious to me that the object of Mr Birnbaum’s romantic intentions was not Ms _♥_ _Yazelle_ _♥_ _._ Mr Birnbaum is, in fact, quite hopelessly in love with Mr Little.’


	4. Chapter 4

**5TH JULY**

Have you ever read a story filled with infuriatingly headstrong characters, whose problems would all disappear if they simply sat down and held a single honest conversation? _Par exemple_ , if Romeo had possessed the prudence to pop in on old Friar Lawrence and ask about the sitch re: Juliet, the happy couple could have flounced off on a Venice honeymoon while their elders ironed things out. Instead, Romeo was a damned slave to his adolescent impulses, and we all know how that turned out.

It was with this concept in mind that I went to counsel Bingo. If Randy Birnbaum was in fact in love with him, then the great lunk could perhaps be teetering on the threshold of a truly corking romance. Randy's easy, indulgent handling of Bingo boded well to me, and despite his less-than-dapper demeanour, I saw no reason why he and Bingo couldn't end up sharing goopy gazes over the breakfast table. Who knows, even given their geographical disadvantage, a pan-Atlantic union could develop. They could settle down in Reykjavik, or something. Bingo does have a fondness for Brennivín.

So, it was with firm intent that I flung myself into Bingo's room, well prepared to lay siege to his sulk. He would not consume any apothecary's quick drugs on my watch.  
'Bingo! Randy loves you!'  
The top of his head could be seen peeking out from a sheet patterned with the Starfleet insignia. 'Huh?'  
I laid it out for him as plainly as I could. 'Randy Birnbaum is daffy about you, old boy. That bouquet of roses was not intended for _♥Yazelle♥,_ but for your own sweet self. You should ring him. Take him along to see Lady Liberty, as you had originally intended.'  
  
His response came in the form of a well-aimed toy tribble, which beaned me right on the nose.  
‘Go walk into traffic, Wooster! I’m sick of your bloody meddling!’  
‘But-‘  
‘There’s a Borg Cube alarm clock on this night table, and I’m not afraid to chuck it!’  
_‘But-‘_  
It was only my years of dodging aunt-propelled projectiles that saved me from catching a sharp corner of said _tchotchke_.

Morpheus escaped me that night, and my tossing and turning inspired Reg to turf me onto the sofa. I sat in a wide-eyed vigil, watching Uncle Tom’s box-set of ‘Babylon 5’ with the sound off, and cogitating fiercely.  
The whole sorry business was my fault. I had charged forth on _*~*~Belliboo~*~*’s_ edict like a blind and overstimulated bull, unheeding that I was rending the first tenuous cords of Randy and Bingo's attachment.  
Putting things to rights would require me to devour a heaping helping of crow. If Bingo would not hear my pleas, then it was worth making an overture to the other injured party. I resolved to seek out Randy.

A few hours later, I was mangling yet another of Fitzy's delicacies, as the lovely Roz refreshed my mug of java.  
'Rough night, hon?'  
She was a glowing, sisterly sort, so I felt no qualms about spilling all to the good lady.  
  
'Tell me about it,' she sighed, after hearing my piece. 'I got a front-row seat to the whole business. Poor Randy. I ain't ever seen the little putz look so miserable. That Bingo fella stormed out, then Randy just kinda sagged where he was standing with those roses. Zillie what's-her-face then had the nerve to ask him if he could get the bill.'  
'And did he?'  
'Randy's the kinda guy who'd give the very clothes off his back to help out a stranger. He tipped generously, and let her take the roses, too.'  
'Golly!'  
'Bingo, on the other hand...' Roz's grip on the coffee pot tensed, and I watched as her knuckles turned white. 'If I had the chance, I'd knock that heartless schmuck from here to Hoboken!'

'Now now, Roz, I do believe it was all a misunderstanding. Bingo may be soft in the head, but I can readily vouch that he is also soft in the heart. Despite the date he'd been strong-armed into, who he really wanted to spend the evening with was Randy. But he assumed that the wee chap was making a play for what's-her-face- I mean _♥Yazelle♥._ That's why he was so miffed.'  
  
The blaring burst of Roz's laughter drowned out the traffic, and caused me to splatter lox all over my shirt. 'That's a good one,' she roared. 'Randy's as gay as a troupe of bonobos slamming down margaritas!'  
'All the better for him to respond to Bingo's advances. But I'm positively stifled as to how to reunite the pair. They could be so happy, Roz!'

She considered me, her Crimson Cat-painted lips twisting slightly.  
'I shouldn't be doing this..' She fetched her phone out of a pocket on her apron. 'Here's Randy's number. I can't stand idly by. He could be a single honest conversation away from finding true love.'  
'My thoughts exactly. When all this is resolved, I'll get you an open charge account at Bloomingdale's.'  
She ruffled my hair, and slipped me a free plate of blintzes.

*

My jaunt back to Stuyvesant Towers was spent brainstorming my explanation and apology for Randy. Despite his soft-shelled disposition, I found myself fearing his reaction to my contacting him. Perhaps he would lay waste to me, cursing my name and vowing to strew my remains in the Hudson River. More likely, the mousy little blighter would just hang up on me.  
I squared my shoulders, channelled Agincourt, and primed myself to have at it with the twerp. For his own good, you understand.

Imagine my whiplash, then, to return to the apartment and encounter young Master Birnbaum himself, chatting away with Reg whilst examining Uncle Tom's TARDIS replica.  
'Looks to be modelled after Peter Brachacki's design,' Randy mused, 'a very good era.'  
'Indeed, Mr Birnbaum, much has been said about the dramatic prowess of Mr Baker and Ms Sladen.'  
'Hullo!' I blurted.  
  
'Welcome back, Bertram. Mr Birnbaum is here on business; he has sought my consultation on a number of issues regarding some professional contracts. If you are looking for Mr Little, I am afraid he departed early this morning. I enquired about his itinerary for the day, upon which he mumbled something to the effect of "a buttload of chocolate and self-pity".'  
I cast my doleful hide onto the sofa. 'Damn it all to Lucifer's en suite! Were Bingo here, this would all become so much easier. Randy, I must humbly beg your forgiveness for stealing the fellow away from you. If I could do it over, I would stand up to the wrath of _*~*~Belliboo~*~*_ , and guard your burgeoning friendship like a caffeinated Pekingese.'

It was at this juncture that Randy broke into an 'Oh, Bertie' rhapsody, warbling on about everything from Bingo's smile to his fanciful worldview to his oddly charming manner of eating tortilla chips with his pinky raised. I made myself comfortable and rode it out selflessly, even Reg seemed sympathetic to the whole melodrama.  
Just as he started gathering steam on the pleasing shape of Bingo's fundament, I cut in with a strident 'Declare yourself to him, man! The only reason he scarpered last night was because he thought you were pursuing _♥Yazelle♥_. He looked as if he could rip a chunk out of the Chrysler building, he was so jealous!'

It should come as no surprise that Randy was of the 'once bitten, twice shy' school of courtship, and he shrunk back at these words like a cat from an adage about wet feet. 'Oh... I really don't know... I don't think I've got the stomach to face rejection again. You shoulda seen the steel in his eyes, Bertie! So harsh, so callous!'  
'Yes, I've seen Bingo level that look at a packet of Twiglets that wouldn't open.'

Speak of the glutton, Bingo chose this moment to storm into the apartment with an armful of bakery boxes.  
'I've got a chocolate babka and some...'  
The blood pulsing beneath Bingo's skin suddenly became remarkably audible. He and Randy stood stock still, and Reg and I felt somewhat obliged to follow suit.  
After a few excruciating seconds, Randy grabbed his bag from the dining table and legged it. 

With the slam of the front door, Bingo turned his brittle self upon the Wooster in the room.  
'That's the man who's in love with me, then? Can't stick my presence for more than a slice!'  
'Bingo..'  
'Whatever hustle you're trying to pull, I know that Randy will see through it like a glass perjury! I wish I'd never come to New York!'  
He took himself off to his room, the bakery boxes still in his arms.

*

Settling my nerves required several cups of tea and a turn around one of Central Park's more bucolic nooks. Reg suggested an afternoon visit to the Guggenheim, and he stopped at a kiosk to fetch us a light brunch.  
As I loitered nearby, availing myself of an unsoiled park bench, my phone buzzed madly in my pocket. The caller ID sent my guts down to pool at my feet.  
'Cora, my dear,' I said through clenched teeth.  
'Explain yourself, Bertie! _♥Yazelle♥_ came to me this morning with an account of, and I quote, "the worst date ever"!'  
'Look here. I tried to warn you of the basic fact of Bingo's incompatibility with the girl. But did you listen? I can sympathise with the desire to help out a bosom chum, I really can, but surely-'  
' _♥Yazelle♥_ isn't my chum, you numbskull! Setting her up with Bingo was an effort to schmooze her! She's one of the hottest trending beauty influencers on Instagram right now, and my brand could really use her promotional clout!'

Well, there it was. The classic _*~*~Belliboo~*~*_ that I knew and tolerated, who could curdle the milk of human kindness with a single sneering selfie.  
' _♥Yazelle♥_ is still keen on Bingo, though I can't fathom why. I have invited her, along with several other ViralFest notables, to the Independence Day premiere screening of "Professor Odd: Game Over". We'll then be meeting at the VIP lounge of the Pumpkin Club for cocktails.'  
'Coo! How did you set that up!?'  
'Tuppy's uncle, Sir Roderick Glossop, is a lifetime member. Despite his questionable hygiene, Tuppy is a useful little dogsbody to have around. Anyway, Bingo shall naturally be invited along. And under no circumstances are you to tamper with my matchmaking efforts!'

I am proud to say I was not ruffled by her threat. 'I wouldn't dream of it. Try all you like, Bingo will take to _♥Yazelle♥_ the same way he took to trigonometry back at Eton.'  
A few moment's silence betrayed her bafflement. 'Whatever. Anyway...' her voice quickly morphed into the cutesy, saccharin tone she used when greeting her viewers on Youtube, 'I hear you're friends with Barnabas Carrowthatch. Any chance of asking him to do a meet and greet? I can set you up with free bronzers!'  
'Goodbye, Cora.'  
I hung up, just as Reg arrived with the restoratives.

As we ambled about with pastries in hand, I relayed to Reg the stuff and pith of _*~*~Belliboo~*~*_ _'s_ evil scheme. 'I'm quite certain Bingo will take the bait - he's a beast of epicurean trappings, after all.' (Yes, yes. Pot kettle etc etc.)  
My man levelled a sharp look at his muffin. 'Ms Bellinger's practice of exploiting her colleagues is extremely troubling.' He extracted a wrinkled berry casing with deft fingers, popping it into a nearby trash can. 'But I do not believe all is lost in regards to the soiree she has planned. There are some most interesting variables to be considered.' He plucked another offending husk from his muffin. 'Perhaps... there is nothing stopping you from attending the venue yourself, Bertram.'

I was touched by this - so much of my recent time and attention had been taken up by ViralFest and the drama it had spawned. While I was keen to spoil Reg with opera, over-eating and other opulences, it was hard to put Bingo's romantic disarray from my mind.  
'Then shift-ho for the Pumpkin Club, eh? Hopefully I can stop Bingo from doing anything too regretful.'  
'I am certain that the _denouement_ of tomorrow's outing will be satisfactory.'  
'I hope so, Reg. In the mean time, let's go and squint at some more modern art.' I extended a hand, and I swapped my untouched pain au chocolat for his gritty muffin.

*

As an Englishman, I feel a bit contrite to be offering up my thoughts on Independence Day. Though I don't doubt that the Yanks gave us a good thrashing, I've always wondered why they've opted to make a holiday in midsummer so heavy on the combustibles. We go in for all that in early November, when the added warmth is a welcome comfort. New York on the 4th of July was a sweltering 32 degrees (by which I mean Celsius, of course), and the general stickiness of the day did not recommend itself to standing in front of an open flame.

Anyway, I got to the Pumpkin Club in the evening (with Uncle Tom's membership to aid me), just as _*~*~Belliboo~*~*_ _'s_ crew were arriving from their viewing of 'Professor Odd'. No doubt the cinema air conditioning had done much to heighten the party's mood. I could see _♥Yazelle♥_ hauling Bingo along by the hand, as Tuppy and _*~*~Belliboo~*~*_ bickered about the in-universe logic of the eponymous prof's powers.  
Keeping scarce, I tailed them through the walnut-panelled rooms (and mercifully frigid air conditioning), until they came upon the roped off entrance to the VIP lounge. A quick exchange with a grovelling host granted them admission. I was left standing alone with naught but good intentions.

A miffed-looking pair of waiters knocked past me towards the VIP lounge, grumbling something about a chap called Chad:  
'Where the hell is he? Tonight's gonna be crazy!'  
'Fifty bucks says he's skipping his shift to go watch "Professor Odd".'  
'Blond idiot's always dropping trays, anyway. We'll probably be better off without him.'

I do hope, readers, that no harsh judgements are passed for the snap decision I then made.  
Turning in the direction the waiters had come from, I quickly found my way to the kitchens.

*

The white mess jackets that the Pumpkin Club staff are made to wear are actually quite the thing. Shiny brass buttons and swishing tails and all. No-one seemed to question my presence, or even ask why the uniform I donned was half a size too small. The back room was abuzz with the sort of offhand smack-talk that vigorous young workers engage in when the punters aren't around to be offended.  
'A hard day's night, eh Chad?' said one purple-haired waitress, glued to her phone. Her name tag read 'Cyndi'. 'Wish we were getting a better penalty than just time-and-a-half.'  
'Quite,' I said.

I was soon shoved through the kitchen doors with a tray of vol-au-vents, and made a beeline with the other staff back to the VIP lounge.  
It suddenly dawned on me that I would be all-too-recognisable, even in the waiter getup. I made an effort to steer clear of _*~*~Belliboo~*~*_ _'s_ group for the nonce. They were splayed upon deep leather couches at the back of the room. Most the group were composed of vaguely familiar style influencers, all either on their phones or preening into their compact mirrors. I glimpsed Bingo, who was reluctantly allowing _♥Yazelle♥_ to hand feed him miniature quiches. Furthermore, Tuppy and _*~*~Belliboo~*~*_ were still wrapped up in their superhero argument. Marvellous, I had some time to figure what the deuce I was going to do. As I scooted past the couches, I held a hand to my face, offering my tray to a table of grumpy old men in three piece suits (I'm sure they would much rather have been wearing bermuda shorts).

Once I finished my round, Cyndi patted my shoulder. 'Caligula wants us back at HQ.' Managing to break her code, I wended back to the kitchen with my fellow drudges.  
A humourless looking manager corralled us together, rapping a pen on her clipboard like a riding crop on a helpless thoroughbred.  
'Alright, you plebs. The Pumpkin Club is proud to play host to an extremely high-profile VIP guest tonight, so I need your A-games. In a few short minutes, the entourage of R. M. Banks will be arriving-' at this, a swell of gushes and hollers arose, and Caligula rapped her pen again, '...for the author's very first public appearance. I want you to make sure that their every desire is catered to. We are to make R. M. Banks feel completely at home here. No asking for autographs, no happy snaps, and for Pete's sake, don't tip off the paps!'

Well, well, well... this was a dose of sugar in the baker's yeast! The appearance of Bingo's beloved Banks would no doubt throw _*~*~Belliboo~*~*'s_ plans a curve ball. I only hoped that Bingo could find some scrap of restraint, and not embarrass himself in front of his idol. Otherwise, Reg and I would no doubt have several more buttloads of chocolate babkas and self-pity on our hands.  
I smoothed my hair, girded my courage, and pushed forth with another tray of vol-au-vents.

Still keen to avoid _*~*~Belliboo~*~*_ _'s_ notice, I scooted along to a group of chic individuals in smart corporate wear who had just arrived. Not only did they look much less sweaty than the grumpy old men, but they boasted some shockingly familiar faces:  
'Reg! What are you doing here!?'  
He cast a wary eye upon my ensemble. 'Why are you acting as a waiter?'  
'Hey, I think he looks cute dressed like that!'  
Sitting beside Reg was none other than the bonhomous Roz, her own waitress togs replaced with a natty black pantsuit, and her red tresses coiffed to perfection.  
I held out my tray to them. 'I will ask for the two of you to explain this later,' I hissed, 'but for now, this was the only way I could access the VIP lounge.'

A loud cracking sound split through the refined, air-conditioned air. It was issuing from the snapping of _*~*~Belliboo~*~*'s_ acrylic-laden fingers.  
'Waiter!' she shrieked, and caught my wandering eye. I did what I could to pretend I'd not heard her, finding the aglets on my shoelaces to be an engaging sight.  
'OI! WAITER!' Shouted Tuppy, and I was hauled over to the lounges by Cyndi.  
'Honestly, the standard of customer service these days,' _*~*~Belliboo~*~*_ tutted. 'We're ready to order and- WOOSTER!!'  
'Bertie!' Bingo cried.  
'I knew you'd try to sabotage me!' _*~*~Belliboo~*~*_ turned to Cyndi, placing her fisted hands on her hips. 'I Demand to Speak to the Manager!'  
'One moment please, miss.' Cyndi pressed the button of a communication device clipped to her uniform. 'Caligula to the VIP Lounge.'  
A few moments later, Caligula marched in, all scowls and shoulder pads. When her eyes lighted on _*~*~Belliboo~*~*_ a well-practised smile oiled onto her face.  
'Is anything the problem, Ms Bellinger?'

'This man is an impostor!' She pointed a violent mauve acrylic nail at me. 'I don't know how he snuck in to your club, but he is impersonating a waiter with the express intent to ruin my evening, and humiliate me before my colleagues!'  
Cyndi looked wounded. 'Oh Chad, how _could_ you?'  
Caligula wasted no time in grabbing me roughly by the back of my collar, while still exacting that smile on _*~*~Belliboo~*~*._  
'I am so sorry Ms Bellinger, I will ensure that this thug is dealt with. In the mean time, please accept a complimentary round of cocktails.' She motioned for Cyndi to start taking their orders.  
'As for you, Chad...' I spied two lumbering security guards fast approaching.

'I beg your pardon, madame, but I would ask that you release that poor chump,' said someone behind us.

I don't know if you've ever sat through the first 'Factory Girl' movie (I just submitted myself to it with Reg last night). But if you have, you'll recall the big entrance scene of Mr Gunmetal. You know the bit where he swaggers onto the factory floor to berate the nasty foreman, wearing the sunglasses and the Armani suit? That was the exact picture painted by my saviour. All heads turned. The very room itself began to swoon, with a wordless understanding of who exactly this man was.  
It was little Randy Birnbaum.  
'Bertie Wooster has proved to be a great ally to me,' he announced, 'and I would appreciate it if the Pumpkin Club would forgive his little foible.'  
'Of course, Mr Birnbaum, sir,' stammered Caligula, and she released her grip on my collar.

Randy then looked to Bingo.  
'Richard, oh Richard. My sweet schoolboy, my summer's morn, my tender god. Since the first moment I set eyes on you, listening to your profound, passionate words about my sordid little world, you have held an unmatched power over me. To speak with you is to delight in a soul both whimsical and earnest. I never found so easy a companion, so endearing an advocate. And you share all of my opinions on the "Anita Blake" series, to boot!'  
Here he produced a titanium brooch in the shape of a cracked heart, just like the one Mr Gunmetal gives to Mabel at the end of the first story.  
'I offer you not just my heart, but my mind, my imagination, and my stories. This is the prop that was used in the pivotal scene of "Fifty Shades of Factory Girl"... it, too, is yours.'

Bingo's mouth dropped to somewhere around his knees. He slowly, reverently took it with both hands. Everyone around us seemed to be holding their breath.  
'I... I don't know what to say, sir. Over our association you have humiliated me, challenged me, haunted me.' Oh good Lord, he was quoting the blasted thing now. 'You have also reached within me to find a flame that I never knew was burning in me. Because of you, I am more myself than I have ever been.'  
Bingo and Randy shared an unmistakably goopy gaze.  
'I am only a factory girl, sir, but I am completely and utterly yours!'  
Cat-calls rose from the patrons and staff alike as they snogged.

'Let's just make this clear, Reg,' I asked my man, 'R. M. Banks is actually _Randy?_ '  
'An advisable pen name,' he explained, 'created by his cousin and editor.'  
Roz leaned into me. 'I managed to convince him that Randolph Mervyn Birnbaum was too much of a mouthful for PR.'  
It was all starting to fall into place, even the oft-heard rumour that R. M. Banks was a zaftig red-haired lass.

'Bertie,' Randy said, clutching hands with a blissed-out Bingo, 'If it weren't for you, I never would have met Richard! And your fella Mr Jeeves was the one who came up with the plan for me to make my public debut tonight. How can I thank you?'  
I shrugged. 'How about getting Roz an open charge account at Bloomingdale's?'  
She slapped me on the shoulder, that klaxon laugh of hers deafening me briefly. 'I'm well covered, hon. Without _me,_ Randy never woulda turned those Dusk-Light fan fictions of his into original stories!'  
'Or gotten rid of my abundance of adverbs,' Randy confessed.

Our cozy repartee was interrupted by * _~*~Belliboo~*~*_ launching herself upon my person, and proceeding to strangle the life out of me.  
'SECURITY!' Reg roared, while trying to rip her off me.  
'Unhand him, Bellinger, and I'll cut you a licensing deal on a line of "Factory Girl" make-up,' said Randy.  
With faultless pep, she released my throat, smoothed the lapels of my mess jacket, and patted me gently on the head. 'Let's talk distribution and royalties, then.'  
'Later, Bellinger. Call me next week. I've got a date with my Little man at the Statue of Liberty.'  
'Lead on, Randy!' Bingo gushed.

Reg turned to the flustered Caligula, who had been trying to herd the waitstaff back to work.  
'If I may ask a favour on Mr Birnbaum's behalf, madame, as a member of his entourage. I would be most obliged if you would allow Mr Wooster to keep that waiter's uniform.'  
She shrugged, and clipped the head of a passing waiter with her hand. 'Sure, why not. It's not like Chad will care. Anyway, this evening couldn't get any more chaotic.'  
Right on cue, a punch-up broke out at the table of grumpy old men, and she zoomed off.

*

'One thing that still puzzles me, Reg.' We were slumped together in the back of a cab, and I noted his rapt attention on my waiter's uniform. 'I can't fathom for the life of me why you wish to keep this dratted outfit. Doesn't seem much like your sort of thing.'  
'Precisely, my libertine,' he said. 'That white mess jacket in particular is hideous. And when we return to the apartment, I will relish the privilege of ripping the thing off of your gorgeous body.'  
Well, I mean to say.


	5. Chapter 5

**20TH JULY**

Just as Spring follows Winter, and holidays follow final exams, the days that followed our vist to the Pumpkin Club proved to be gloriously sans Bingo. Reg and I wallowed in lie-ins, followed by late breakfasts in bed (and no tagalongs were there to decimate the pastry rations before we got a chance to peck at them). We enjoyed a spate of leisurely day trips to places like the Met, 5th Avenue, Coney Island, and even the 'FRIENDS' fountain which isn't actually the 'FRIENDS' fountain. Our cups were further filled by nights out at the opera, the Great White Way, and even one rather interesting interpretive dance gig at an independent theatre downtown. I'd never before seen a chap who could so dramatise his rocky relationship with his mother through feats of contortion and an ocarina octet. But there you are.

And yet, _quelle domage_ , it is my lot in life to never be more than a few degrees away from a Drone at any given time. One night, after a perfectly eye-watering production of 'La Boheme', Reg and I were milling about the Lincoln centre. No sooner had I expunged the ingénue-inspired phlegm from my face, that we waltzed into the path of old Chuffy Chuffnell and his belle Pauline Stoker. The two were in town to visit Pauline's mother, and we were invited along to brunch with them at her Brooklyn Heights brownstone.  
  
A few mornings hence saw us breaking the baguettes with one Angelique Dupont and her lovely wife Sylvie. The good lady owned a well-regarded art gallery on Lafayette Avenue. And, as one would presume, she had quite a lot to say on the topic of artists and their choice of subject matter.

'Hacks, all of 'em!' A sprightly spray of espresso splattered the tabletop. 'I'm trying to put together an exhibition of up-and-coming young NY artists. All I can find are soulless suck-ups, who only create bland, unexciting pieces that match the decor of their rich patrons' tacky penthouses!'  
'Gosh, I suppose money talks, what?' I murmured into my croissant.  
'I hear that. Just last week we went to that studio in... where was it, Sylvie?'  
'Elmhurst, dear,' her wife supplied, as she mopped up the espresso with a napkin.  
'Yeah, Elmhurst. This girl named Gwladys Pendlebury - and by the way, never trust a girl who spells Gwladys with a W - has made a name for herself from painting portraits of trophy wives and their lapdogs in matching outfits! I'm looking for narwhals, and all I'm finding are porpoises! You feel me, Bertie?'  
'Oh. Yes, rather,' I nodded helpfully, unsure of exactly where porpoises came into it.  
'Blood pressure, Mom,' Pauline warned, as she sipped on her rosehip tea. 'You don't want another hypertensive episode. Especially not before the wedding.' As she lifted her cup, she subtly flashed the diamond that Chuffy had picked out for her again.  
'I won't if I can find some decent goddamn artists,' she grumbled, and failed to notice as Slyvie nicked her plate of bacon and replaced it with a slice of grapefruit.

Speaking of art, on a trip to the Fort Greene Artisan's Market that afternoon, Reg and I happened upon a caricaturist's stand. Not yet having taken advantage of such a vendor, I felt that a portrait of the young Wooster and his man would make a corking souvenir. And, after a spot of strategic bartering, so did Reg.  
'Oh come now, Reg, it'll be a lark. And a fun keepsake to remind us of our trip.'  
'Because nothing quite evokes the grandeur of America's biggest metropolis like grossly distorted physiognomy.'  
'Let me have this, and I'l let you pick the venue for the next three outings.'  
A microscopic quirk of the brow inspired me to add: 'And you can pick my outfits.'  
'As you wish, my marionette.'

It was only halfway through our sitting that I realised who the artist was. 'Corky? Good Lord, I haven't seen you for yonks!'  
'Still quick on the uptake as ever, Bertie,' he replied with a swish of his pen. 'Nice to see you've landed such a handsome fella. And one who can keep up with your guff, at at that!'  
Corky Corcoran was one of the chums I'd made during my gap year in between Eton and Oxford. We'd been introduced at a games night hosted by Pauline's sister Emerald, and as fellow creative types we hit it off easily. At the time, he'd been studying art at The Pratt Institute. If anything, it was good to see that he hadn't given up his passion.

Once he was done, we took a gander at his handiwork.  
'I say! I'd always suspected that my eyes were a tad too big for my face.'  
'I would not say that, Bertram. This is not a like portrait in any respect.'  
'Oh, I don't know Reg. Corky's prefectly captured the way your head sticks out at the back.'  
'It most certainly does _not._ '

Corky didn't seem to take it personally. 'Eh, this is hardly my finest work, it's just for the coin. All my real stuff's at my apartment. I've recently been painting a series of portraits of performers from the ball scene.'  
'Ah. Depicting the slam dunks and alley-oops of the city's athletes, eh?'  
'I believe Mr Corcoran is referring to ballroom culture, Bertram; the LGBT subculture dedicated to competitive performance and dance that epitomises glamour and various aesthetic styles.'  
'You mean like drag queens and club kids? Oh, that sounds like a romp! I played the first ever drag Elle Woods, don't you know.'  
Corky smirked at me - I think he was picturing me in a pink pantsuit with a chihuahua in my handbag. 'You know what? XD Nightclub is hosting a ball this Friday. Why don't you two come with? I'll be gathering reference material, but you boys can let your hair down and enjoy the walkers.'  
I looked to Reg for permission, and he seemed amenable.  
'I'd let your boyfriend pick your outfit, though,' Corky remarked, eyeing my relaxed-fit Spongebob tee.  
'Very good, Mr Corcoran.'

***

My confused assumption that the ball scene is a competitive urban sport turned out to be right on the money. I don't know if you've ever had the good fortune to attend one, but the energy, athleticism and all-round oomph of a good voguing makes cricket look like a mug of Horlicks laced with diazepam.  
As soon as we set foot in the door of the club, the crush of the crowd and the merciless thump of the music crashed upon us, as well as the perky jabbering of the emcee. Out on the dance floor, a brightly spangled cavalcade of walkers danced and flipped and death-dropped with a brash kind of zeal that would not look out of place on Aunt Dahlia when holding court at her WI meetings.

These balls are attended by 'houses', by which I mean the found families of LGBT folk of colour, who compete in various categories of 'walking', by which I mean performing (I mean, if you've seen the posing, voguing, strutting, and array of wild convulsions these artists glide through, you'd agree that 'walking' is a bland and ill-fitting way of describing the whole thing). And of course, their outfits positively drip with colour and sparkle.

With this in mind, I took a moment during the spectacle to see how Reg was holding up - I assumed that all the fuschia sequins and gold lamé would be quite the assault to his constitution. (By the vy, he had donned the Wooster corpus in a sleek and tasteful navy tank top and chinos.)  
When I looked to the place by my side, where he had been nursing an overpriced rum and coke, no Reg was in attendance. I shot an anxious, quizzical eye at Corky, but he was too busy capturing all the glamour on his tablet.  
  
Just as I was preparing to mount a sweaty and nervous one-man search party, the emcee bellowed: 'Category is: Virgin Vogue!'  
It was then that my jaw did a death-drop of its own. Reg had doffed his dove-grey polo, and in nary but his pleasingly snug Armani trousers, proceeded to vogue his way across the dance floor as if he'd been doing it for years. The swift, precise, elegant gyrations of that handsome and oh-so-loved physique were... stirring, to say the least. Even though I'd repeatedly worshipped every inch of the fellow, I was getting some new and novel ideas. So was the crowd, if the merciless screeching was anything to go by. I silently thanked whatever god prevailed over this millieu (one of the muses, I'd wager... that Turpentine filly?) that Corky had caught the incident on video.  
The emcee was flushed and giddy. 'Inimitable! Come on, paragon! Tens across the board!'

He alighted from the dance floor, and was met by my stare, which I'm sure must have been singularly thick.  
He leaned in and explained in my ear: 'Forgive me Bertram, I could not help myself - a bout of nostalgia overcame me just now. There was a dance club in Cambridge which enjoyed my patronage whenever I required a study break.'  
Well, 'enjoyed' was certainly the correct term for it. I decided to forgive him for withholding this skill set from me, given its many potential uses and benefits.

After Reg was inevitably declared the landslide winner, the next category was announced: 'Femme Queen Realness'. This seemed to act on Corky like a shot of Horlicks laced with amphetamine.  
'Oh, Bertie! This is it! She'll be up next!'

The she in question turned out to be a legendary walker named Marlene Neptune, from, as you may have fathomed, the House of Neptune. Leggy and impeccable, her silky sashays across the floor left Corky in a rather pitiable condition, weak-kneed and wobbly-lipped. With every clack of her Louboutins, the throng got more whipped up.  
As Marlene paused to give some rather spiffing face, the emcee wailed out praise: 'Fierce! Fierce! Fierce! Eff Ay Ee Ar Cee Ee! She IS glamour, darling! Leg-en-dary! Legs for days!'  
'Isn't she wonderful, Bertie?' Corky cooed, in a cavity-inducing tone.

But it appeared Marlene was not the only apex predator on the floor. Her house sister, Sirene Neptune, stepped into the spotlight, equally leggy and impeccable. Sparks shot out as the two girls locked eyes.  
What followed was a pose-off: a display of sibling rivalry that made Cain and Abel's squabble look like a calm difference of opinion. Where one sister struck an elegant mien, the other sister did it over the top of her, and bigger. The audience had upgraded their din from deafening to positively cataclysmic.  
However, the horseplay turned to tears when Marlene tripped Sirene up by a long, shapley leg.  
  
Attendants rushed to the fallen queen, and after a moment of conferred mumbling from the judges, the emcee announced: 'DISQUALIFIED! Fair femmes are to play fair at the ball!' And Marlene stomped off like a slender, beautiful rhinoceros. 

***

What followed this duel was a few more rum and cokes, a whirl of more whimsical walkers, and then something of a muddy haze. I awoke the next morning with a diabolical hangover, and a desperate need for both a priest and a cuppa.

Just as I was siphoning up my bracing, milky tea, a thumping on the apartment door assailed my core in the worst way. Bracing my feeble self, desperate not to bear the noise again, I stumbled over to answer it.  
Who should have crawled out of the whatsit, but Bingo Little.  
  
'What ho, Bertie...'  
'Oh, Bingo. Where have you been hiding yourself, old boy?'  
'Um, well... I went upstate with Randy here...' I opened the door further to reveal Bingo's little man. He waved a small, apologetic wave.  
'And what did you kids do there?' I managed to ask.  
'Ah. Well, you see...' at this juncture, he held out his left hand, furnished with a stately platinum band.  
  
'We got married!' He squealed, and my skull rattled like a subway carriage.


	6. Chapter 6

**26TH JULY**

‘Married?’ I repeated, the word sticking in my throat.

‘At Niagara Falls,’ said Bingo, as he pushed his way into the kitchen to rifle around for pastries. ‘It was so romantic, Bertie. So much… water, and all that. Mind you, Randy’s mum threw a massive wobbly when she found out. She’s insisted on holding a proper reception for Randy’s family. My uncle’s been invited, too.’  
  
‘We’d be so grateful if you and Mr Jeeves would come,’ Randy added, as Bingo tossed him a semi-stale cruller.  
‘With bells on, I’m sure.’ I smiled uneasily as the newlyweds plopped down on the sofa in a mess of crumbs and entwined limbs.  
Bingo sighed contently, booping Randy’s nose. ‘You really should get married, Bertie, it is the only life.’

I returned to my tea, sipping desperately. Randy seemed more sensible to my discomposure. ‘Don’t worry, we only came round to grab Richard’s stuff, to take back to my place. And to deliver the happy news, of course.’  
‘You should see Randy’s pad! It’s a whopping great townhouse in Alphabet City, with gorgeous views, a rooftop garden, and a padded room off the master suite that’s full of-‘  
‘Alright, honey,’ Randy patted his husband’s hand, as I desperately tried to push down any colourful mental imagery.

At length, the couple began sniffing around the apartment, tracking down all of Bingo’s clothes, chargers, impulse purchases _et al._ When Reg emerged from our bedroom, I suggested making ourselves scarce.

  
I was eager to continue re-connecting with Corky. After a slightly slurred phone call to the old egg, we made our way to his studio apartment in Greenpoint, equipped with rations of fresh and greasy hangover nosh.

‘Corky! You’re a narwhal!’ I declared around my mouthful of hash brown.  
‘A what?’  
I gestured to the fine array of paintings and paintings-in-progress that were propped up around us. ‘These paintings of ball walkers are just the tabasco. I know of a gallery owner who’s desperate to exhibit young artists who’ve got the right stuff. If we show these to her, I warrant she’d be positively puffed.’  
  
Corky took on the distinct look of a labrador having bacon dangled in its face. ‘Really? You don’t think you could hook us up, do you?’  
‘Of course I could. Why don’t we make a date of it at my uncle’s apartment? Wine and dine her a bit? Once Bingo and hubby have vacated, we can store the paintings in the second bedroom.’  
‘Wow Bertie, you’re a real pal!’

I surveyed the paintings once more, and couldn’t help but realise that a very healthy percentage of them depicted the feisty Marlene Neptune, in a series of utterly ravishing frocks and grandiose postures.  
‘So how’s the divine Miss M, after that little set-to with her sister?’  
Corky frowned. ‘Her house mother flipped out. They had a vicious fight outside the club. From what I understand, her place at the house of Neptune may be coming to an end.’ Here he brightened. ‘She could always stay at my place!’

I looked around again – the tired old futon and student-worthy kitchenette did not suggest themselves as welcoming digs for a woman of Marlene’s obvious opulence.  
‘Maybe,’ I mumbled. Perhaps if Angelique could help propel Corky to the pinnacles of the NY art scene, he would then be able to accommodate such a diva. At the very least, he’d be able to hire someone to clean up the empty tubes of paint and half-eaten pot noodles dotted about the place.

***

Later that day, an Instagram post of Randy lugging Bingo over the threshold of his townhouse signalled that the apartment was once more safe to inhabit. And after a few expensive cab trips over the Queensboro Bridge, the pride of Corky’s labours were all carefully stored in the second bedroom, nestled next to Uncle Tom’s H. R. Giger floor lamp (how Bingo managed to sleep with that thing in the room, I’ll never know).

‘I have just sent photos of some of Mr Corcoran’s paintings to Ms Dupont,’ Reg announced, ‘and she is eager to meet this Thursday night. I received an additional text from Ms Stoker, advising us that we should feed her mother a strictly low-sodium repast.’

Far from being put out by the little klatch we had to plan, Reg and I were rather diverted by the whole thing. We planned a menu featuring roast salmon and a fruit-based dessert, and I gave Reg carte blanche to pick the outfits for all three of us. On the day, I artfully positioned Corky’s works in prominent positions around the apartment’s common areas. I also had the presence of mind to stash the most garish of Uncle Tom’s geek curios somewhere secluded. Angelique hadn’t struck me as much of a sci-fi fan.

***

‘What is Kryten doing in the toilet?’ Came Corky’s distressed cry, as we made our final preparations for the big night. ‘Do you want to give Angelique a heart attack!?’

Reg swooped in from the kitchen, and effortlessly ferried the poor droid from the lavatory to the wardrobe in our bedroom. Trying not to look guilty, I busied myself with setting up the mellow playlist I’d created on the hi-fi.

Corky’s grim expression, not to mention his constant fiddling with his bow tie, was a clear call of distress. I gripped him gently by the shoulders for a good bucking-up.  
‘Come, come, good fellow. Angelique is going to love you. So will Marlene, once she sees what a hit you’re due to be with the artistic elites of the city. And if there’s anything that Bertie Wooster knows how to do, it’s throw a ripping good shindig. I promise you that tonight will be just–‘

The intercom buzzed. The good Ms Dupont, no doubt. ‘Chin up,’ I commanded.

‘Bertie? It’s Bingo… we’ve… got a bit of an emergency,’ came the plaintive voice on the line.  
I could have had kittens, I was so pipped! ‘What in the blazes are you talking about!? We’re expecting company tonight!’  
‘Um… look, perhaps we’d better come up.’

I looked sheepishly to Corky, who had fainted. I attempted to at least make him comfortable on the living room rug.

The sounds of visitors grew close from without. I readied myself to give the blasted bally blighter a thorough smack-down. The door swung open in my face, permitting the entrance of none other than Lord Bittlesham, Bingo’s highborn and properly oofed-up old uncle.  
‘Well, Richard,’ he declared, looking about the place, ‘This is a fine little love-nest. Perhaps a bit on the grand side for an administrative clerk, but I will assume the two of you are not living above your means.’

As he rattled this off, Randy and Bingo slunk in behind him. Before I could get in a ‘what’s all this, then,’ a manically cordial Bingo pointed me out to his elder.  
‘Do you remember my school chum Bertie, Uncle Mortimer? I’ve invited him and his boyfriend to dinner tonight as well.’  
I willed every last scrap of violence I had in my soul, and channelled it into a death glare. Bingo’s smile stayed affixed to his face like a constipated barnacle.

Lord Bittlesham continued snooping round, squinting at the art deco mouldings. ‘How much is the rent on this place, Randy?’  
Randy looked frantically to me, and I shrugged. ‘Uh… a-about two grand,’ he guessed.  
‘Two grand!?’ Bittlesham shrieked. ‘How did you get it so cheap!?’  
‘I… know the landlord…’ I swear I could see the wee chap’s spectacles start to fog up.  
‘Good man,’ said Bittlesham.

I turned tail for the kitchen, intending to leave Bingo to explain the unconscious artist on the floor by himself, but I was buffeted by Reg sweeping through the doorway.

‘Good evening, Lord Bittlesham, Mr Little, Mr Birnbaum. I trust Mr Corcoran will soon awake from his nap.’ He indicated Corky, still splayed upon the rug. ‘In the interests of being a gracious dinner guest, I have just checked on the salmon in the oven, which I believe is now done. Perhaps I can offer to plate up the meal, so you are free to greet Ms Dupont when she arrives?’

Bittlesham shot his nephew a lemony look. ‘Just how many people did you invite to this dinner, Richard?’  
‘Um…’  
‘Are you certain that you and your new husband can afford to cater for such a horde? All the more reason for you to find profitable employment, young man! As I said before, I am determined to forbid you from becoming the trinket of a wealthy sugar daddy, and leeching off his charity. Lord knows there are enough scroungers out there who-‘

The intercom buzzed again. Bingo’s helpless herbivore look took on a new level of horror.  
“I believe that will be Ms Dupont, Mr Little,’ Reg prompted. ‘Perhaps you can invite her up, and inform her that she may survey Mr Corcoran’s paintings.’  
‘What!?’ Bittlesham bellowed, looking about at Corky’s paintings as if suddenly noticing their presence, like an elephant in the proverbial master suite. ‘One of your scruffy friends painted these… daubs!? I’ll not have you associating with such vulgar degenerates. Look at that lurid, gaudy mix of oversaturated hues! What sort of demented mind could have birthed these childish-‘  
‘Hey buddy!’ Corky was now sitting upright, his anxiety now eclipsed by good old American outrage. ‘I dunno who you think you are, but these “daubs” pay tribute to some of the greatest-‘

Bingo had scurried over to the door, admitting a guest who was most certainly not Angelique Dupont.  
‘Corkyyyy…’ Marlene Neptune wailed, mascara pouring down her cheeks. ‘Mother Neptune threw me ooouuut!’ She carted a cherry-pink rolling suitcase and matching rucksack in her wake.

My phone buzzed to life here, and I took it as a life preserver. I scarpered to the sanctum of the lavatory and answered it.  
‘Bertie, dear,’ came Pauline’s voice on the other end, ‘I’m so sorry, but Mom has to take a raincheck on tonight. We’ve had something come up last minute.’  
‘Not a hypertensive episode, I hope?’  
‘No… more of a… mother-of-the-bride-zilla episode…’  
I harkened Angelique bellowing in the background: ‘that’s _ivory,_ you colour-blind jackass, not cream! You’ll not dress my only daughter in such a ghastly shade!’ The smash of something brittle and valuable echoed on a tiled floor.  
‘Dear me,’ I replied. ‘Well, I best leave you and Sylvie to it, then. Drop us a line when you want to reschedule.’  
‘Thanks, hon.’  
I exited the lavatory, only to be socked in the face by a splatter of roast salmon.

You would be forgiven, readers, for disbelieving me when I claim that the messiest, wildest, most virulent food fight I’ve ever seen in my life was instigated by a room full of perfectly civilised grown-ups. But given the layers of misunderstandings and crossed purposes of that evening, not to mention the disagreement that had flared over Corky’s spot of art, I suppose the regression to primary school methods of resolving conflict was inevitable. I'm pretty sure there was a full moon that night, which may have explained Angelique's little outburst, too.  
My main concern was for the blobs of fish, green beans, and low-sodium potatoes dauphinoise that were making contact with the carpet, the furniture, Uncle Tom's less tasteless knick-knacks... not to mention Corky's marvellous paintings.

Reg was nowhere to be found. And among the fracas, Marlene Neptune stood tall on the coffee table, clearly having shaken off her earlier misery. Undeterred by the airborne bits of dinner clinging to her stockings, she was in the grip of a most inspired dress-down of Lord Bittlesham. The luckless salmon was not the only entity being roasted and thrown about the apartment. Let me see if I can recall her freestyle read:

_‘Sad little man in your monopoly hat_

_You're a doormat for fat cats and trust fund brats_

_The only real struggle that you've had in your life_

_Is gettin' cut by a caviar-loaded butter knife_

_Think you can step to artists with bohemian cred?_

_My boy Corky's got more talent than you've fat in your head_

_You don't care about the common folk you've butchered and bled_

_So Marlene's here to spout her manifesto: you've been read!’_  
  
And so on and so forth. Bittlesham just stood there gaping at her open-mouthed, like... well, like a fish.

I am certain she could have improvised her way through several more devastating verses, only the front door slammed open once more, admitting yet another unbidden guest:  
‘WHAT THE DEVIL IS GOING ON HERE!?!?’  
Aunt Dahlia's complexion was so purple, she was veritably ultraviolet. Her contracted pupils roved over the dinner-splattered apartment, the unruly mob of visitors, and then finally rested upon my feeble frame.  
‘BERTIE!!!!’


	7. Chapter 7

**5TH AUGUST**

I recall a school trip during my Eton days; our house was hauled over to Italy for the purposes of studying the eminent relics of the Classical Age (in actual fact, we mostly ODed on sugar, yelled at each other, and tobogganed down the Spanish Steps). As a part of the itinerary, we toured the ruins of Pompeii. I shall always recall the tortured contortions of the victims of Vesuvius, and the looks of mortal horror plastered upon their poor faces.  
What those doomed souls must have witnessed in their final moments was not a patch on the 2019 eruption of Mt. Dahlia.

The interlopers scurried from the apartment as she stomped up to me, boisterously condemning my conduct, my insolence, my domestic habits and my choice of dinner companions. She cast her heavy suitcases down upon the rug to repeatedly jab me in the chest with her finger. Her tirade had become something of an opaque wall of sound by this point - through the ringing of my ears, all I could make out were the snippets 'loathsome parasite,' 'reprehensible,' 'absolute gutful' and 'impromptu beheading.' At which point, she flung me from the premises like Jesus on a money-changer.

Bingo and Randy were shaking themselves off in the hallway, as Lord Bittlesham had lain waste to his own nephew in a similar manner before biffing off. With few options at hand, I tagged along with them to Randy's Alphabet City townhouse, where I was offered a spare room for the night (thankfully free of recreational annexes).  
  
Reg followed some hours later, with our luggage in hand. 'I assisted Mrs Travers in expunging the mess from the living area, and she was somewhat calmer when I left. She explained to me her reason for visiting New York: She had ascertained from a fellow member of her WI chapter that, and I quote, "one of those young Drones fellows had eloped to Niagara with his ethnic boyfriend." Mrs Travers assumed that this pertained to us, Bertram, and naturally she hurried across to New York, to both offer her congratulations and demand an explanation.'  
  
'And instead she walked into feeding time at the monkey house,' I sadly surmised. 'I doubt I shall ever forget the look on her face, as she watched old Bittlesham splattering green beans upon the TARDIS.'  
'I would not approach her yet, Bertram. Allow her some more time to cool down. I arranged a lunch reservation and matinee show for her tomorrow, as an offer of reconciliation. She shall be dining at Cafe Boulud before attending a matinee show of "Rent".'  
'I wasn't aware "Rent" was on Broadway at the mo.'  
'Not Broadway - the Astoria Amateur Theatre Guild is currently running a production. NY Daily News described it as "electrifying".'  
'Well then. Speaking of wild bohemians, what became of Corky and Marlene?'  
'I do not know. Unfortunately, Mr Corcoran's paintings suffered considerably in the food fight. Many of them are beyond restoration.'  
I clicked the tongue dolefully. 'Damned shame! What will Corky do now for his presentation to Angelique? You don't suppose he could showcase those caricatures from his side hustle?'  
'I should hope not, Bertram,' Reg replied darkly.

*

There was little to do the next day but loaf around Randy and Bingo's place, waiting for a signal that my dearest auntie was pacified enough to start mending the familial bridges. I hated the feeling of being out of her favour. Of all my forebears, she is the most cherished and exalted, despite (and sometimes due to) her abundance of pep. She has defied the typical creaky dyspepsia one finds in one's more ancient kinsmen, remaining young of heart and zesty of manner well into middle-age. And ever since the first time she valiantly stood between self and the abominable Aunt Agatha (bravely defending me from a threat to lash my schoolboy's legs with a leather belt), she has had a singular claim on my nephewly affections. I suffered for the rift of this bond, impatient to set all to rights.

Bingo was going through his own dark night of the s, re: his Uncle Mortimer. The codger had clearly not appreciated Bingo's clumsy attempt to pass Uncle Tom's pad off as belonging to Randy. Bingo had been clipped soundly round the ears and told he was a putrid little creep, and Lord Bittlesham had flounced off to his suite at the Langham.

Now, the portrait that I have painted thus far may lead you to believe that Bittlesham is a joyless old vulture with ice water in his veins. While his tastes and general manner do fall on the side of antiquated, there is in fact a mighty heart beating beneath his jowls. You see, Bingo's immeadiete family are a dour and reactionary brood - ride-or-die conservatives, in fact. When they discovered that their second born was a pansexual free spirit with nil interest in upper-class propriety, they had cruelly booted him from the nest. It was Uncle Mortimer who had come to the rescue, giving Bingo a shoulder to cry on, a place to call home, and a promise to foot the bill for his education. He had also made his own well-meaning attempts to Mould Bingo into a productive member of society, but of course these had largely been for naught.

So now, as two babes lost in the wood, Bingo and I mulled over our teas, trying to brainstorm ways to get back into the good books of our favorite relatives.  
'What about staging some sort of grand rescue? Involving a rosy-cheeked toddler?' I suggested.  
'We could train it with rations of toffee,' Bingo mused.  
'I could not advise it,' came Reg's commentary. 'Though I appreciate the creatvity of such a scheme, I might remind you that child endangerment is considered a Class A misdemanor under New York legislation.'  
'Ah. Duly noted, Reg. It would likely be hard to source the little bugger, anyway. Well... what if Bingo and I were the ones put in danger, then?'  
'No, Bertram.'  
'Right ho.'

He wafted gently about, refreshing our teas and laying out a plate of home-made biscuits. 'The transgression of the food fight is still fresh in Mrs Travers' mind. So, in order to revive her affection for you, a subtle but evocative prompt of what she loves about you would be needed. Perhaps a gift basket, filled with goods that evoke happy shared memories?'  
I examined the gooey chocolate-chip delicacy I was currently mauling. I recall the first time I'd made a batch with my aunt and cousin, on a cheery Saturday in June. I'd just gotten a resounding kudos for passing my GCSEs, and we dabbled about the kitchen like fairy godmothers. We then gobbled the entire tray up out on the back lawn, listening to the family's vinyl collection of Fleetwood Mac. If that wasn't just the sort of nostalgic schmaltz that could bring a wisftul tear to the eye!  
'Brilliant, Reg!' I snatched the rest of the cookies up, including the one that Bingo was about to munch on. 'Have you any gift wrap, old boy?'

***

An afternoon spent trawling the shops yielded quite the hamper. In addition to the cookies, I procured a bag of Aunt Dahlia's favourite bath salts, a ruby pendant (her birthstone), a tin of French earl grey, pungent with lavender, and a special edition boxset of Stevie Nicks live in concert. After artfully arranging the whole lot in a tasteful silver gift box, I booked a delivery for bright and early the next morning, utterly chuffed with my own ingenuity. All that was left for me to do was sit back and await the plaintive calls of a properly softened aunt, beckoning her prodigal nephew back unto the family brood.

That very afternoon, I recieved the following stream of texts:

I dared not ask her if she at least liked the tea.

It was well audacious of her to breathe such fire, considering that she had shown up without notice. Had she simply texted me in the first place, I could have told her that it was not Reg and self getting hitched at Niagara, and her siege upon New York could have been deftly avoided. But aunts will be aunts, and if she no longer cared for my company... well, I no longer cared for hers, then.

Biting back my bile, I decided to look up Corky. To be honest, I was not anticipating any more hospitality from his corner, given that his master works had been transformed into Jackson Pollock rip-offs. He didn't answer my texts, for one thing. Unable to shake off my concern, I made for his studio.

'Corky?' came my cautious hail, as I tapped on his door. No answer. 'Everything all right in there?'  
I knocked again, and started as he ripped the door wide open. A pair of noise-cancelling headphones hung about his neck. The poor blighter looked sleep-deprived.  
'Oh, it's you Bertie,' he said vacantly.  
'Corky, old thing, I really am sorry about-'  
'The dinner? Of course you are, it was catastrophic. But I really can't talk now. In the middle of something.'  
'But-'  
'I'm arranging to visit Bingo and Randy's this weekend. I'll see you then, Bertie.'  
'Ah-'  
The door slammed in my face. Well, at least he had spared me the use of devil emojis.

***

'Another dinner party, Bertie,' Bingo declared. 'The way to my uncle's heart has always been through his stomach. What better way to make amends? He's more likely to accept my marriage to a man of means if he sees what a whiz I can be in the kitchen!'  
'But why are you inviting Corky? Last time, the two of them were at each other's throats like a pair of vexed badgers.'  
'Well then, they'll have the perfect opportunity to bury the hatchet! Besides, Corky requested it. He's also invited along that lady with the art gallery. Says he's got something new to show her.'  
'Let me get this right. You mean to gather together the individuals whom, when they were last in the same room, resorted to flinging carbs at each other as a means of communication?'  
Bingo nodded.  
'You don't think this is a recipe for disaster?'  
'Um...'

I dragged him before Reg, who was examining a first edition of 'Fifty Shades of Factory Girl' on Randy's bookshelf.  
'Do you know what this chump is planning to do? Tell him, Bingo.'  
'If you are referring to the intended dinner party do-over, then I am already aware of the proceedings. Mr Little, prior to the evening, I advise you to send a signed copy of this to your uncle.' He held the book aloft.  
'Oh come now,' I bleated. 'You can't suggest that an old stick-in-the-mud like Bittlesham could be moved by such a debauched...' off Bingo's look '...tender love story?'  
'That, and I believe we shall be able to keep Mr Corcoran from challenging him again with the presence of Ms Dupont. If you recall, her absence from the party was one of the main dilemmas we faced last time.'

I wasn't convinced, but I decided to put my chips on Reg's reasoning. 'Well... I suppose. But we should probably help Bingo with the food. I've known him to serve fish fingers and baked beans when trying to impress.'  
'Oi!' Bingo shot back. 'I'll have you know that your Uncle George once asked for a fourth helping of beans on toast at my place.'  
'I don't doubt it - the man can pack away teething rusks. Now, how about I teach you how to make potatoes dauphinoise?...'

***

And so, we spent the rest of the week preparing for lightning to strike twice. Same menu, same outfits, same mellow playlist loaded onto Randy's hi-fi. However, the content of Corky's new works was a bit of a shocker.  
  
I squinted at the painting of the wild boar in the black tie. 'Is that... Lord Bittlesham!?'  
'Yup,' Corky beamed. 'I tell ya, Bertie, that incident at your first dinner party was something else. While I'm not happy that I lost so many of my ball walker paintings, the drama that unfolded that night inspired a whole new series of work!'  
And indeed, his new paintings, set up around Randy and Bingo's living room, told the story of that fateful skirmish. Marlene Neptune once again took pride of place among them, the stalwart heroine standing up for art, freedom and whatnot, while the other players present were represented in various caricatures: Bingo and Randy as star-crossed lovers, Reg as a sleek, mysterious kind of daimon, floating above the chaos, and self as the proverbial clueless naif with eyes too big for his head. It looked like the stuff of high romance. And the bold clashing of primary colours was certainly something. But my eyes kept on drifting to the porcine villain of the set.

'You can't exhibit these, Corky! Bittlesham will be here tonight, and he's sure to recognise his own pompous snouted self depicted in oils!'  
'Good,' huffed Corky. 'I hope he chokes on the compliment I'm paying him.'  
'Bertie!' Came a whimper of distress from the kitchen. 'Little help with the hor d'oeuvres?'  
I rushed off to save Bingo from his own culinary ineptitude, dreading what was to come.

The crudités were underdone, the finger sandwiches were cut way too large, and the potatoes dauphinoise were watery. I spent the next half-hour making order out of chaos, dismissing Bingo to start putting out snacks. The buzz of conversation started to grow as I heard people arriving, and I braced myself for the imminent outbursts. As yet, nothing came. Just the low din of conversation over my playlist.  
'Oh Bertie, there you are!' Pauline Stoker stood at the kitchen door, a wide smile on her face. I hoped that she had not just planted it on as a defence mehanism. 'You simply must come out and say hello!'

I was yanked out into the living room, and the very first sight that met my eyes was Bittlesham, standing right before his own caricature, a finger sandwich clasped in his trotters.  
'It's a scream, isn't it?' He told Randy, who stood next to Bittlesham with his arm around Bingo. 'Of course,' Bittlesham continued, 'great artists such as yourself would know all about satire. "Factory Girl" was such a masterwork in sending up the post-industrial revolution class system!'  
The look on the old boy's map was perfectly tranquil, and he showed no intention of hurling his sandwich at anyone.

Someone bumped into me, and I almost dropped my own finger sandwich.  
'Oh, Morty darling!' Squealed Marlene, as she ran to his side and dropped a kiss on his cheek. 'You must stop bothering Mr R. M. Banks!' She slapped his shoulder playfully.  
'Nonsene, Marlene. He's my nephew-in-law. He'll be quite welcome at the new house, for one.'  
'Yes - you simply must come and visit us, Mr R. M. Banks. And I'd love you to come and see me perform at the next ball. Maybe it could be source material for a new story?'  
'Uh, thanks. It's Mr Birnbaum, actually.'

'Disgusting, isn't it?' Corky grumbled in my ear. 'The jerk went and stole the woman I loved. Said that her read of him was his road to Damascus moment, or something. They're starting a new house, the House of Capricorn. The name suits Bittlesham, given that he's such a pig.'  
'I think Capricorn is a goat, actually,' I offered unhelpfully.  
Corky 'tchah'ed at me, with spite.  
'But what about Angelique?' I asked, endeavouring to lighten the mood. 'Is she here? Has she seen your work?'  
'Yeah, she wants to give me a solo exhibition at her gallery, or something,' he muttered. 'Went on at me about unparalleled genius and phenomenal talent.' His eyes had not roved from Bittlesham and Marlene. (Or should I say, Father and Mother Capricorn?)  
'Well, there you are. I must go and congratulate her!'  
'She's chatting with your aunt,' supplied Corky, and slouched off into a dim corner.

My eyes slid to the other side of the room. There, before the painting of Wooster the Big-Eyed Bimbo, stood Aunt Dahlia. I made a sprint for the kitchen again, but her keen eyes snapped right upon me.  
'Bertie!'  
I cringed, and awaited the inevitable carnage.  
'OH, MY YOUNG BLOT!'

I felt a pair of auntly arms crush the air out of my lungs. 'Bertie, you sweet boy! My dear precious nephew! Auntie's sorry she was so angry at you. There there, it's all alright now, poppet.'  
I had to wonder at this sudden 180. While it was not unlike my favourite aunt to have the odd change of heart, I would have thought I was due for a few good months of penance before she'd consider letting me back into the good books again. Not that I wasn't grateful, but the emotional whiplash was a bit unsettling.  
'We've been telling your auntie about what a cherub you are,' Angelique said. 'Helping connect me with Corky, setting Mr Birnbaum up with his new hubby... not to mention taking a stab wound to the leg to rescue my daughter and her fiance.' Here, Chuffy and Pauline smiled and waved at me. 'You're a good man, Bertie Wooster.' Angelique raised her glass. 'To Bertie!'

All around me, the party guests lifted their drinks with relish, and repeated the affirmation. I must admit, it was hard not to get a little misty-eyed at this.  
Reg caught my eye, and we shared a silent, succinct moment of understanding.  
There seemed to be an expectation that I should respond, so I attempted to rally my thoughts.  
'Gosh... thanks awfully, everyone. I rather think that, uh...'

The front door opened, letting in a fashionably late party guest. I locked eyes with the man.  
'Good god... Bertie Wooster! When Randy told me you'd be at his place, I barely believed him!'

Rockmetteller 'Rocky' Todd crossed the floor, and without missing a whatsit, planted a wet, passionate kiss upon the Wooster lips.


	8. Chapter 8

**9TH AUGUST**

Now then, what to say about Rocky Todd? Well, for one thing, meeting him in the first place was a complete accident. One that, despite everything, I have never been able to bring myself to regret.

During my gap year, my American chums dragged Gussie Fink-Nottle and I out to a bayside lodge on Long Island, to escape the worst of the July heat. Naturally, Gussie was drawn by the promise of local newt colonies, while I obliged my friends and tolerated the mosquitoes and dreadful internet signal.

One evening, as the others cavorted about a bonfire on the beach, I roved off by myself to watch the stars blink awake in the milky sky, and dream of lag-free streaming video. I came upon a fellow standing on an outcrop of rocks, yelling random adjectives above the roar of the breakers. He explained that he was trying to freeform, waiting for the muses to bless him with inspiration for his poetry.

Even with the whole feral hipster aesthetic he had going on, Rocky was undeniably attractive and charming. We wound up at his cabin sharing a bottle of whiskey, chatting freely and cheerfully. He gifted me with a haiku on Aunt Agatha that I can still recall to this day:

 _The dragon auntie_  
_Breathes fire and roars at Bertie_  
_She can’t burn his light_

One thing led to another, and after that, I found myself visiting Rocky’s cabin quite frequently, if you understand me. Even after our gang headed back to the city, I would still find time to hove out to Long Island every week, and enjoy his private poetry readings. What can I say? The bloke was hugely talented.

The time came for me to return to London. But instead of shedding tears, Rocky wished me well and accepted my departure serenely. You see, he’s a big believer in free love, and had eagerly extolled to me the virtue of allowing people to ‘flow like water, unconstrained, wild’.

Just imagine my surprise when, about a year later, his first published book of poetry (entitled 'Sheaves of Shrubs') hit all the best-seller lists, boasting pieces like ‘To an English Daffodil’ and ‘The Song of the Silly Posh Prince’. Here’s an excerpt from my favourite of the lot, ‘Dandy Adonis’:

 _Dandy Adonis!_  
_How sweet your uncomprehending smile,_  
_How lovely your blank cerulean stare._  
_You flinch at the fisherman’s hook, at the clean crack of the woodchop, and sigh for wi-fi._

 _I want to bundle you in raw natural fibers,_  
_And tickle your translucent skin with rough-hewn callouses,_  
_And keep you like a wolf’s quarry in my den._  
_You hum the melodies of Lloyd Webber, little bee,_  
_You are a rare confection, too brittle._

 _The dun shroud of September falls,_  
_My season with you fades as the crab apples bloom._  
_And I am sourly thankful, you have taken flight for the Queen’s hearth._  
_You would not, could not brave the hoar frost, the wild boar._

Look, I don’t mean to be egotistical, or presumptuous. But I really do suspect that some of Rocky’s work was indirectly inspired by our little tryst. At least somewhat. Surely I’m not mad to think so?

Anyway, I had seen hide nor hair of Rocky in the time since, and his sudden re-emergence upon my mouth had surprised me just as much as it had everyone else.  
I held him at arm’s length and declared: ‘Long time no see, Rocky old boy! Gosh, it’s been years since we last clapped eyes on each other, eh what? You just popped up out of the blue!’

The cad leered at me. ‘But I’ll bet you still remember your last visit to my cabin. That rainy afternoon spent on the sofa? I certainly haven’t forgotten…’ His hands slid around my midsection, and I gently smacked them away.  
‘How about I introduce you? This is Aunt Dahlia, and you remember Corky and Pauline of course, and my _boyfriend_ Reg. Reg, this is my old pal Rocky, _whom I haven’t seen in years._ ’

The look was subtle, but I could tell that Reg was hankering to strangle Rocky with his own small intestine. I let him grasp me about the waist and drag me away. The blighter shadowed me for the rest of the evening - if Rocky came within ten feet of me, he was on me like stink on cheese. At one point, I had to conduct a conversation with several people while practically wedged beneath Reg’s armpit.

My boyfriend is a great and good man in many respects, but one of his more prominent failings is his tendency to be a tad possessive. Whenever we are out on the town, any chap (or even filly) who is hapless enough to give me the glad eye usually finds themselves on the receiving end of a chilly Jeevesian death glare. The one single fellow who was too daft to take the hint (a city boy wearing far too much jewellery) was reduced to a quivering pile of apologies, as Reg stood over him and spewed legalese, threatening an exorbitant lawsuit.

Once the guests had cleared out and we commenced scrubbing the crockery, I attempted to soothe the savage solicitor. 'Really Reg, there's no need to be insecure. Rocky and I had a brief fling, several years ago. He was never even officially my boyfriend.'  
'And I'm sure he preferred it that way. All the better to slink back into your life now and recommence this "fling". Individuals like Mr Todd have little respect for commitment.'  
'Steady on - you can't just assume all that! I've never known Rocky to harbour cruel intentions. He's never so much as squished a bug! He'd rather watch it buzz about and then write a poem on it.'  
'He was eyeing you like something he wished to devour.'  
'You're imagining things. Try taking off the green-tinted lenses, they're not a good look.'  
'I don't want you seeing him again!'  
He looked ready to smash a plate, but then thought better of it. (It's not really his style.)  
'Look here, Reg. I shall not be beholden to your paranoia. Even if Rocky did have designs on the Wooster corpus, I think you might at least extend a scrap of trust to _me!'  
_

He had the decency to look a bit cowed at this, and I left him to finish drying the dishes himself.

***

The following day, Aunt Dahlia welcomed us back to the apartment at Stuyvesant Towers, so a perfunctory kiss-and-make-up was dispensed with. I was still rather put out with Reg. Rocky Todd was no sleazeball from a pub, he was an old friend who I was still on goodish terms with. In actual fact, I was curious to see how the old sluggard was getting on, now that he had book royalties pouring in. It was all perfectly innocent and chummy - I had half a mind to invite him round for tea, partially just to satisfy my spiteful urge to see Reg squirm.

Instead, I chose to advertise my displeasure in more underhanded ways. I had Corky's caricature of us framed, and suggested to Aunt Dahlia that she could hang it in the kitchen. I bought a magenta tie-dye t-shirt and wore it with intent. On the same shopping trip, I also bought a copy of Rocky's best-seller and left it lying on the coffee table. This last little stunt earned me an especially soupy look from Himself.

‘Bertram.’  
‘Yes, darling?’  
‘What is this?’  
‘I believe that’s a coffee table, sweet-pea.’  
‘Don’t be coy. Are you advertising your intent to visit Mr Todd behind my back?’  
‘No, I’m advertising the fact that you are an unreasonable ass.’  
‘I beg your pardon?’  
‘In a perfect world, Reg, where you don’t suspect me of stabbing you in the back at the first opp., we would be breaking bread and sharing pithy anecdotes with Rocky by now. Despite your delusions, he’s a stand-up fellow, with wit and wisdom and literary whatsit pouring from his ears. Just the sort of bloke that I could see you harmonising with. But instead, here we are, bound by your cute little edicts about whom I may and may not pay a visit to.’  
‘He kissed you, Bertram! I do not care for the wit and wisdom of a man who would take you from me.’

A flicker of distress passed across that elegant brow, and it cut through my righteous anger like a hot knife through a soft chump. A sad Reg is my greatest weakness, greater even than Darjeeling with biscuits or an unguarded Steinway. I let the hackles droop, and opened my arms to my man.

‘Rocky Todd would need a legion of frenzied draught-horses to even attempt that,’ I vowed. ‘To be honest, I’d be more worried that he’d kiss _you,_ once you two got acquainted. You’re quite irresistible, yourself.’  
He allowed me to snatch him up in my arms. ‘I’m not going anywhere, Reg. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.’

At this, he clutched at me with a vague kind of sorrow, which left me quite haunted. Had anyone ever hurt Reg before? If so, I would urgently require their name and address, so as to track them down and knock their worthless slimy block off.  
‘If it really means that much to you, I can pass up lunch with Rocky. No chit-chat with a chum is worth causing you this much anxiety.’  
‘You are a rare treasure, Bertram.’

We got into the early stages of physical reconciling, when Aunt Dahlia sashayed in, looking all business.  
‘Get dressed boys, we’re off to Bed, Bath & Beyond to pick out a new sofa. I need your advice, Reg, and your wallet, Bertie. Oh, don’t pout like that, you can save your make-up sex for later! Step lively, now.’

***

At the risk of oversharing, no make-up sex was in fact forthcoming. As we settled into bed that night, the din of my beloved auntie watching several episodes of ‘American Horror Story’ from the master suite rather spoiled the mood. Likewise, the next morning, she stormed into our room at the ungodly hour of half-nine, herding us to the dining table for the batch of omelettes she’d whipped up.

Desperate for breathing space, I agreed to accompany Bingo on a trip to Central Park Zoo, where we watched an amorous pair of lemurs enjoy a few vigorous rounds.  
Bingo leant a hand upon his cheek. ‘Gosh… that reminds me of what Randy and I did last night… there’s this absolutely spiffing position that he introduced me to called-‘  
‘Ice-cream! Who’s up for an ice-cream! I could really go for an ice-cream, how about you, Bingo?’  
I endured a few more hours of this, valiantly ignoring Bingo’s crude quips about the giant pythons in the reptile house.

Crawling back to Stuyvesant Towers, I craved a cold shower, followed by a nice lie-down in a dark room. Hopefully Aunt Dahlia would be out interrogating a sales clerk somewhere.  
I opened the door upon a most arresting sight:

‘Auden was a visionary. I actually dropped out of one of my literature classes at Yale because I got into a fight with the professor about "Lullaby". He tried to convince me that it was a cynical, sarcastic dismissal of romantic love.'  
'Nonsense. If anything, Auden was one of the most romantic poets of the last century.'  
'My thoughts exactly! Oh, hi Bertie.' Rocky Todd waved casually at me from the new sofa. 'Your fella invited me round for tea. It's good to see you again!'


	9. Chapter 9

**24TH AUGUST**

As a keen student of the human psyche, I was gratified to see that my prediction re: Reg and Rocky's general compatibility had hit the n. right on the h. We wiled away the afternoon over a second pot of tea, segueing between Auden, Byron, and even Tolkien, Reg and Rocky both pigs in some very cerebral mud. The insights that they were both able to extract from authors that I had yawned over at school had me a little bit enamoured. I began to suspect that I had a type (that is, brainy, bookish blokes), or that I was even a confirmed sapiosexual. That little theory was put to rest when I remembered Ginger's occasional pearls of wisdom: that the sun revolved around the earth, that dolphins were fish, and that the 'Star Wars' prequels were the superior films.

While Reg did make a point of sitting between self and Rocky, with his arm clamped around the Wooster shoulder, I was still proud of him for this olive branch moment. It seemed to be something that we were all benefitting from, given the air of easy rapport and boomps-a-daisy-ness that had so naturally bloomed between us. And while I suspected that Reg initially brought Rocky round to read him the riot act, I decided to just appreciate the favourable result.

The gathering was broken up by Aunt Dahlia thundering in, and recruiting Reg and self to assist her with dinner. She had invited round a few guests of her own - honorary American members of the WI - and we were directed to make coronation chicken fit for a queen. The dinner guests' chatter about community working bees and their spirited game of canasta wore our attention quickly, and we retired to bed early. While I frittered away the post meridiem on Farmville and Candy Crush, I noticed that Reg was deeply immersed in Rocky's 'Sheaves of Shrubs'.  
'Any good?' I asked him.  
'I'm not always keen on free verse, but Mr Todd's use of imagery is very evocative.'  
'You know... I've always suspected that Rocky sort of wrote those poems about me.'  
'"Sort of?" Bertram, he practically owes you a cut of the royalties.'  
'I like the "Dandy Adonis" one, myself.'  
'As do I, my sybarite.'

***

It is said, by the fuzzy and indeterminate 'They', that blood is thicker than water. However, this curly and most determined Bertram says this: that when you spend too much time around blood relations, it all gets a bit too thick.  
I adore Aunt Dahlia, I really do, and I was glad that we were able to bury the h. over the whole salmon-stained sofa debacle. However, over the years of my adulthood, I had forgotten how bloody houseproud she really is. One by one, I have recently been reunited with her charming little neat-freak habits. _Par exemple_ , remaking my already sufficiently made bed (say what you like, but tight hospital corners give me the pip). Always fashioning that weird little V shape into the toilet paper. Choosing to break out the Dyson as soon as someone plops down to watch telly. Not to mention her penchant for interior decorating tips.

'Bertie, dear.'  
'Yes, Auntie?'  
'I insist you come out to the living room and clean up the mess you left.'  
'What mess? The single mug I used, I took to the kitchen, washed, dried, _and_ put away with the handle facing inwards.'  
'I speak of the throw pillows, poppet. The ones you left strewn about like debris after a tropical typhoon.'  
'But they're all still on the sofa!'  
'Positioned in a displeasing, haphazard arrangement! Come, young clod, and let me show you the proper formation.'  
Aunt Dahlia's tutorial in applied pillow-arranging took up the better part of an hour. I imagine that some minor circle of Hell, reserved for folks who leave dirty dishes in the sink, could put her methods to very good use.  
  
I dragged Reg out to the nearest obliging cafe to gain some of my sanity back.  
'Reg,' I pleaded casually, 'I know we're not due back in London for a while yet, but what say you to a getaway from NYC? Maybe an Airbnb on Long Island, or possibly a jaunt out to the ISS?'  
He took in my frazzled mien, and his brow quivered a quarter-inch. 'I confess that Mrs Travers has been wearing my nerves thin, as well. She dared to tell me that the fitted charcoal shirts that I purchased from Ralph Lauren were "drab".'  
'Right! It's settled then. We ought to touch base with Rocky too - I'm sure he can give some sterling recommendations for accoms!'

But when I rang the Poet Todd, he had a completely different idea.  
'Why don't you guys just come and stay with me? It's so peaceful here on the bay. You could really get outside of yourselves.'  
'Oh, Rocky, I don't know,' I looked across the cafe table at my boyfriend. 'I mean, I know you and Reg have sorted things out, but this might be asking a bit much. Besides, do you really want two fussy city mice getting underfoot in your wee cabin?'  
'Oh, you didn't hear? After the money started coming in, I traded up. Got a nice place just outside of Oyster Bay. You two can have the guest room, and there's even good wi-fi reception! What do you say?'  
Again, I looked expectantly to Reg, whose brow arched approvingly.  
'Well, alright then. So long as you promise not to deliver a dissertation on the accepted method of hanging dish towels.'

***

I was impressed by Rocky's new pad. Not the stuff of Jay Gatsby, mind you, but a perfectly picturesque two-bedroom number, clad in wood shingle, with a splendid stone fireplace in the living room. I was doubly impressed by the fact that the great reams of creative clutter about the place were kept in relatively tidy clumps.  
However, a grey, ghastly pallor had cast itself upon Reg's fair features. He stiffly made his way inside, dropped his bags and slumped down on the generous chesterfield. Rocky graciously bowed out to the kitchen for refreshments.  
I hovered and fussed, as is my prerogative. 'My darling... whatever is the matter? Is this too far-flung a spot? Did you forget something at the apartment? Have you a fear of American colonial architecture?'  
'It...' he choked. 'It is currently 5.15pm...'  
'Yes... and...?'  
'Mr Todd... is still wearing his pyjamas.'

After a quick, delicately-phrased word to Rocky, he agreed to change into a polo shirt and jeans, as well as comb his hair. While I assisted Rocky in the kitchen, Reg nursed a restorative brandy before the fire, slowly regaining his aplomb.

It never fails to amaze me what a good night's slumber and a leisurely breakfast can do for the old _esprit_. As Reg and I pottered about Rocky's cabin, savouring the brochure-worthy view of the bay and the merciful coastal breezes, I watched the tightness around my man's eyes and hard line of his shoulders wear away like a sea cliff. This was also thanks in no small part to Rocky's laid-back affability as our host. He is gifted with that sort of rustic, uncomplicated charm that magically puts a tense chap at ease, like a scruffy, waggle-tailed mutt. Even given his inclination for shabby casual wear, Reg was ultimately put quite at ease, and I was jolly well glad for it. After a few days of this seaside shambling and loafing, I was in such a tranquil frame of mind that I was forgetting my own name half of the time.

The thorny topic of jealousy made its unwelcome return one afternoon, as we sat on Rocky's back porch, absorbed in a good spot of cloud-watching.  
'You know, we probably won't get away with staying here much longer,' I sighed. 'We have Bingo and Randy's reception coming up, and I am awaiting the cream-coloured invite to Chuffy and Pauline's nuptials any day now. I suppose I've reached that age of ripe young adulthood where I've an endless chain of weddings to gird myself for.'  
'It can prove to be quite an expensive exercise,' Reg advised. 'I myself have been invited to an average of three family weddings a year since Cambridge. Punjabi families do not cut corners on such festivities, either.'  
'Gosh. Best to keep my weekends clear, then.'  
'Most prudent, Bertram.'

Rocky made a face over the rim of his iced tea. 'Eurgh. All that consumerist fuss over such a heteronormative construct. No thanks. Y'know, I don't think I have a single relative who could say they're truly happily married. The day my parents got divorced was a blessing for all of us. If I ever meet the guy who invented monogamy, I'd... I'd...' he screwed up his mouth. '...have some very strong words for him.'

Reg eyed him cagily. 'Perhaps some people just don't possess the temperament required for a committed relationship.'  
Rocky shrugged. 'Each to their own, I guess. But free love just makes people happier, as far as I've seen.'  
'I once knew an advocate of free love,' Reg exclaimed, a taut edge in his voice. 'He promised me the world, and strung me along for months before spurning me for being too "boring". It certainly did not make _me_ happier.'

I was stung by this revelation, and instinctively grasped Reg's hand. It appeared that Rocky was affected too, his deep eyes growing soft.  
'That wasn't free love, Reg. What you had there was an unfaithful jerk.'  
Reg quirked a curious brow, and the poet continued. 'What irks me even more than folks forcing themselves into marriage is the slimeballs who use free love as an excuse to exploit people for easy sex. Free love is about honesty, and compassion, and every partner being on the same page. Whoever abused your trust like that was just plain cheating. And frankly, he was an idiot to let you get away. You're one of the most interesting guys I've met for a long time. It's doesn't hurt that you're so easy on the eyes, either.'

Rocky had delivered this appraisal in his unruffled, straightforward manner. While many a soul has flattered Reg with extravagant praise and audacious fawning, it was this frank compliment that flustered him, and brought a rather appealing rose to his cheek.  
'He's positively fascinating,' I agreed fondly, squeezing his hand again.

Given the balmy temp, we soon repaired down to the beach for a more vigorous pastime, paddling and skylarking about together in the surf. The sky and the salt and the smell of 50+ sunscreen was heady and cheering, and with the final fibres of tension between Reg and Rocky melted away, it was one of the most pleasant afternoons I have passed in recent memory. We clambered back to Rocky's place as the gloaming fell, and he lavishly laid out a bounty of nibbles and booze to share on the living room rug. Night properly fell, and the chill was enough to warrant a good fire. Rocky set the hearth ablaze, and we sprawled ourselves out before the flames like a gang of sated fur seals.

Now, as the three of us had built such a relaxed and amicable bond, further chummy gambols were revelled in, well into the night and throughout the next few days. It was all quite wholesome and fine and honest and above-board, you understand. Nothing that should invite leering innuendo or vulgarity. Besides, what three healthy, consenting young men decide to do in their spare time is entirely their own business. There's an end to it.

Anyway, things continued on in this strain for a spell, and it was all rather oojah-cum-spiff. And then early one morning, around quarter past eleven if my memory serves, Rocky's phone went off and he leapt out of bed with a start. (The blighter is so secluded and rustic, that even a routine email from his literary agent is cause for alarm).  
Reg and I listened keenly at the stilted string of 'yes'es, 'of course's and 'I certainly can's that Rocky peeped out. Something dense sunk into my previously glowing tummy.

Rocky hung up. 'That was my Aunt Isabel. She's invited herself over to stay for a week.'  
'Rum!' I declared. 'When is she arriving?'  
'In approximately five minutes. Help me take these sheets down to the laundry, will you boys?' 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~if this chapter gets at least 15 comments I swear I'll write about their threesomes in horrendous tawdry detail~~
> 
> *cough cough* What?


	10. Chapter 10

**14TH SEPTEMBER**

‘I’ve left your Uncle Jimmy,’ announced Aunt Isabel, casting her bags at Rocky’s feet.  
‘You’ve what?’ said Rocky.  
‘I could no longer bear looking at his smarmy fat face over the breakfast table. I’ve followed your mother’s fine example and washed my hands of the sleazy, hypocritical rat. I don’t mean to impose, but you _are_ my favourite nephew, after all. You won’t mind taking in an old invalid woman from the cold?’  
She sprightly hopped into a cushy armchair, her floral sundress fluttering in her wake. ‘Who’re these clods?’

‘Auntie, these are my friends Reg and Bertie from England. Reg, Bertie, this is my Aunt Isabel from Chicago.’  
‘What ho, Isabel, old thing.’  
My man took the opportunity to exemplify flawless decorum, worthy of H. R. H. ‘How do you do, madam.’ He extended his hand, which Aunt Isabel examined like something venomous.  
‘Bit froufrou, aren’t you, pal?’

‘Look, Auntie, it’s not that I’m not happy to see you, but Reg and Bertie are staying with me right now. It might be a bit crowded.’ Rocky’s own hand went right to his temple.  
‘Well, they’ll just have to sleep on the couch then, won’t they? Take my bags up to the guest room, will you hon? And air it out, I don’t want it stinking of young bachelors. And somebody get me some tea!’ She grabbed the remote from the coffee table and flicked the telly on to a daytime soap. Her nephew lay a deeply sorrowful grimace on us, and we assisted him in bowing to the first of what would no doubt be many auntly whims.

‘It’s just for a week,’ Rocky mumbled to himself. We were huddled in the kitchen with mugs of dreggy tea, a safe distance from Isabel’s gravitational field. “I’m so sorry for this… just when we were sharing a truly wonderful time, she has to go and exact herself on me.’  
I patted Rocky’s shoulder. ‘I sympathise, dear boy. Aunts are, part and parcel, an act of God that one can do little to mitigate.’  
  
‘If I may ask, Mr Todd, why is it that you are so resigned to tolerate her intrusion?’ asked Reg.  
Rocky puffed a sigh over his lukewarm brew. ‘Out of the whole extended family, she favours me singularly. I was named for her, you see, her middle name is Rockmetteller.’  
‘Blimey,’ I said.  
‘Well, that and she’s the relative with the cabbage. Made a killing by writing inspirational self-help books with Christian overtones. She even hooked me up with my literary agent. Any act of dissent on my part would get me dropped from her will, not to mention send me on a long-term guilt trip that I’m sure my mother would be happy to bolster.’

I peered into the living room at said lady, presently vacuuming up a bag of chipotle-ranch-flavoured crisps and shrieking at the participants on a re-run of ‘Dancing With The Stars’. The archetype of Christian inspiration she was not.

‘We could get out of your hair,’ I offered, ‘make things less complicated for you.’  
‘Oh, please don’t go!’ Rocky gripped my shoulder desperately. The pleading, harp-seal look of his eyes did its work on me.  
‘Alright. If a buffer is what you require, then buff we shall. Right, Reg?’  
‘We are at your service, Mr Todd.’

***

That evening, we threw in our plans to order pizza, upon Isabel’s insistence that a tuna casserole be prepared instead.

‘I caught Uncle Jimmy sneaking into the gin again,’ Isabel told us, as Rocky served her a third helping. ‘With a cigar, if you can believe it! So I asked myself, “Isabel, why should a delicate woman of purity and temperance be subjecting herself to this constant deviation?”’ She shook a hefty splodge of ketchup from its bottle. ‘Even given Reverend Kander’s plea that I bear up and think of the wedding vows I made before God. Nope, the way forward was clear. A waif of my constitution would eventually have perished under Jimmy’s bad example. Now, I’m just like an emancipated Hebrew slave, freed from the king of Babylon!’

‘“ _Va pensiero”_ indeed, eh?’ I ventured, and was shot down with an imperious glare.  
‘That’s great, Auntie,’ Rocky supplied. ‘So, what are your plans? Will you be settling down elsewhere in Illinois? Or maybe even further afield? Canada, perhaps?’  
‘I sought you out, Rockmetteller, as the ideal midwife for my spiritual catharsis.’  
That sounded painful, whatever it was.  
‘Your simple poet’s lifestyle, convening with the glory of nature, will be the perfect setting for me to draft my confessional about the strained and seedy years I spent under Jimmy’s yoke. I thought you could even give me some pointers on free forming. These memoirs feel like they will be on the lyrical side.’

‘Um, sure.’ Rocky replied. ‘How about we take ten minutes to brainstorm tomorrow morning, before Reg, Bertie and I leave for our planned overnight trip out to Fire Island?’  
The pointed expression on his face of play-along-you-chumps was as plain and clear as a glass of water. I saw Reg grab his phone, presumably to book last-minute accommodation.  
‘Oh, indeed,’ I nodded. ‘But remember Rocky, we leave early tomorrow. Not a whisker past ten-thirty, you understand.’

Isabel fired her glare at me again, as if the notion of spending an overnight trip with this Bertram was akin to exile in Babylon.  
‘If you must, Rockmetteller.’ She then returned to ravaging her plate of ketchupy casserole.

***

 _Quelle surprise_ , readers: finding lodgings on Fire Island with less than 24 hours’ notice during summer is something of an exorbitant challenge. However, the customary Jeevesian magic was woven, and after a lumpy night spent on the fold-out in Rocky’s downstairs study, we ‘scaped the clutches of Isabel for a jaunt out to the blessed locale.

The following week turned into a relentless game of dodge-the-auntie. Sometimes, when she was in the grip of her muse, we’d mostly have run of Rocky’s place as she holed herself up to write in the guest bedroom, barricaded from the stink of bachelor. Other times, she would corner her luckless nephew for hours, demanding constructive criticism, heart-to-hearts and other assorted horrors. At least Reg and I were able to scarper down to the beach during these trials.

Worst of all were the shared mealtimes. One evening, she invited herself along to a dinner out at the local seafood restaurant, originally booked as a table for three. She sermonised at us about the dangers of sin and degradation, as she ripped apart crab’s legs and glugged a bottle and a half of Cherry Coke.

The big cropper came on Sunday. As you might have guessed, Isabel dragged Rocky out to the nearest Baptist church for their morning service, necessitating a cruelly early start for him. Meanwhile, Reg and self lounged as long as we could bear in the lumpy fold-out, before getting a start on the requisite Sunday luncheon.

At the market, I suggested that we cater to American palates, planning to forgo the usual Sunday roast in favour of some state-side specialities. But when I reached for the Kraft Easy Mac and the hot dogs, Reg's denunciatory eyebrow had me quickly rethink this.  
'Even in times of duress, there is no excuse to let standards slip, Bertram.'  
Obediently, I opted for some ludicrously-priced, imported brown sauce. I suspect the old boy was starting to yearn for the motherland.

When Rocky got home, and set his peepers on the spread we had prepared, he looked close to weeping. I suppose a Sunday morning service with an aunt is liable to make even the strongest fellow a bit emotional.  
'You boys are amazing!' He pulled us both into a firm, lengthy hug.  
Aunt Isabel seemed less impressed, scanning the traditional British goodies with typical American snarkiness. 'No mac and cheese? No gravy for the biscuits?'  
'Those are Yorkshire puddings, Auntie.'  
'Pah.'

We dug in, and Isabel held court as she pushed roast beef around her plate.  
'That sermon was really something. You don't often hear the Book of Judith being read. It was so uplifting to hear the church give such emphatic support for strong women. Especially regarding the disposal of brutish men!' She gleefully hacked at a potato with her knife. 'Of course, that minister's delivery wasn't a patch on Reverend Kander...'  
'You know, I once won a school prize for scripture knowledge,' I piped up. 'I was particularly well-versed in the Gospel of Matthew. "Now the first day of the feast of unleavened bread"... uh, "And as they did eat, Jesus said, Verily I say unto you"... um, "Once I was inspired, now I'm sad and tired"...'  
Her eyes narrowed into slits. 'Is that King James? Anglican nonsense, the lot of it! You chumps are just Catholics who can't commit!'  
'Erm...' I rebutted.  
  
She continued gathering steam, clearly relishing her new choice of target. 'I really don't know what Rockmetteller was thinking, making nice with you limey pantywaists! Foisting puddings and self-deprecation and your divine right of kings on the poor kid! I mean, really! A decent boy from the heartland shouldn't have to tolerate such-'  
'Stop it, Auntie, I love them!'

Her head snapped around. 'Huh?'  
'You heard what I said. This is my house, and I can invite whomever I want here. And I've fallen in love with these two sweet, charming gents. I won't hear another word against them.'  
His fiery eyes glanced to us. Reg and I shared a glance of our own.  
Rocky continued: 'And if you have a problem with them, or me, or our love, then you are welcome to leave.'

Before she could get a single strident syllable in, the front screen door slammed open, admitting a robust chap in an unseasonable tailored waistcoat. Given the pencil moustache and wingtips, one would be forgiven for thinking he'd wandered off from some second-rate swing band.  
'There you are, baby!'  
He swaggered up to Isabel, casting before her a bouquet of hot pink gerberas.  
'I've come to take you back home, Mrs Mundy. Daddy's been missing you bad!'

Isabel's eyes bugged out of her head. 'Jimmy, you putz! I told you it's over! I can't stick marriage to a minister who preaches sobriety to his flock, while he's still hungover from Saturday night!'  
Uncle Jimmy didn't seem fazed. 'Hey, you just gotta get that crap Reverend Kander's been telling you outta your head. And I forgive you for sneaking off to his services, by the way.'

He then took note of Reg and I. 'Who're these clods?'  
'My boyfriends, Uncle Jimmy!' Rocky announced, with a flash of defiance on his map.  
As is expected of the typical male, heterosexual boomer, Uncle Jimmy did not take to this information well. The face he made could have soured all the dairy in Wisconsin. ' _Boyfriends!?_ Whatsa matter with you, Rocky? Why can't you just settle down with a nice Christian girl, instead of turning your home into a mini-Sodom and Gomorrah!?'

I was quite surprised by Isabel's response to this: she snatched up the gerberas and used them to soundly lash her husband, petals flying everywhere.  
'Enough with the Book of Genesis stuff, as if you can talk! If those fussy English pansies make my nephew happy, then good luck to him! Fat lotta good _our_ holy matrimony ever did!...'

And yay verily, the skirmish thus continued. Rocky quietly ushered Reg and I out to the back porch.  
He looked to both of us, and then to his feet. 'So, uh... I'm guessing you boys weren't expecting _that..._ '  
'Which bit?' I asked. 'The surprise appearance of your uncle, or the whole love confession thing?'  
He simpered nervously, the harp-seal look making a reappearance.  
'Well, um... yeah. There it is. It's not something that I ever would have expected, but... it's a bolt-of-lightning kind of love, to boot. You two are just adorable. I've been fighting the urge to wrap you both in silk and hand-feed you chocolates all week.'  
His blush was threatening to outdo the fierce afternoon sun. 'I know it's sudden... but you wouldn't at least consider the idea of becoming a thruple?...'

The thing is this: Rocky is, without doubt, a stand-up bloke of stout heart and sturdy withers. Our little Long Island escape had been a delightful venture full of mirth, stimulating conversation and romping recreation. But whatever affection I felt for the old egg was as mild as a neglected cup of milky tea. It certainly paled against the passionate tabasco that was my love for Reg.  
For one thing, the supersensory connection I share with my man - comparable, I warrant, to the likes of Jane Eyre and Rochester, or even Mabel and Mr Gunmetal - was not something I had ever been able to achieve with Rocky. In fact, Reg and self made use of this link to conduct a silent conversation. After a few flutters of the noble brow, we came to a unanimous decision.

'Rocky, my good fellow.' I placed a gentle hand across his shoulder. 'Dear, dear Rocky. We love you, old thing... just... not like _that_. The time we've spent together has been a real lark, truly it has. But I just can't picture Reg and I happily holed up here in the boonies. Nor could I bear to have you languish in our decidedly urban London flat. Troubadours such as yourself should be strictly free-range. I think there are just too many irreconcilable differences in play for such a thing to really work. Ever so sorry to have to disappoint. But I think it was just one of those things, what?'

I had watched his entire bearing slowly sag through the course of this response. 'Oh... okay then,' he murmured, and dropped down heavily onto the porch bench. The waves of mortification rolling off him were agonising to witness.  
Reg sat down beside him, and radiated calm consolation. 'We hold you in high regard, Mr Todd. Perhaps these feelings you have for us are a sign of a new, deeper desire: the example of Bertram and I as a couple could inspire you to find lasting love of your own.'  
'Oh, indeed! The gentleman, or gentlemen, of your dreams could yet be waiting in the wings, ready to sweep you up into your own happily ever after!'

He raised his head, and braved a watery smile. 'Thanks... but if you boys don't mind, I think I need a long walk alone on the beach right now. Maybe with a little despondent free forming.'  
'Of course. But do let us shout you to some pizza tonight, it's the least we could do.'  
Before Rocky dragged himself off to work through his dolor, Reg suddenly pulled him into a firm bear hug. 'Take heart, Mr Todd. I promise, there will be days ahead brimming with unimagined happiness.'

As he shuffled off along the shoreline, muttering adjectives to himself, Reg and I went back inside. Aunt Isabel and Uncle Jimmy were nowhere to be seen. But quickly I discerned some rather heated, disconcerting sounds coming from the fold-out in the downstairs study.

Isabel's echo bounced its way into earshot. '...Oh, _Jimmy!!'_  
Well. At least one branch of Rocky's brood was prospering in the romance department.  
As my Sunday luncheon threatened to make a reappearance, Reg put out an excellent suggestion. 'Perhaps we should quickly pack up the leftovers, and then make ourselves scarce.'  
'You see, Reg, this is one of the reasons I'm so glad that you're my boyfriend. You're a fellow of unassailable logic.'  
'I am gratified to hear it, Bertram.'

***

We couldn't bring ourselves to leave Rocky until we knew he was on the mend. Uncle Jimmy quickly swept Isabel back home to Chicago, blessedly allowing us the space to console our friend with pizza and a few broad comedy films. (I never would have suspected the poet to take to Mel Brooks, but my recommendations of 'Blazing Saddles' and 'Young Frankenstein' were quite well received.) We soon bid him a fond farewell, just as the late summer breeze was turning brisk, and he promised to drop us a line the next time he could bring himself to open his inbox.

We had just enough time left in New York to attend two lavish wedding receptions, with Aunt Dahlia in tow: one for Baron and Baroness Chuffnell, and one for Mr and Mr Birnbaum-Little, respectively. Soup and fish were donned, tears were shed, cakes were mangled and Hava Nagilas were belted out. Just as we started recovering from the compound hangover, Reg's long service leave began to trickle down to a matter of days, and we took off for JFK international. We looked our last upon the Manhattan whirl through the window of a taxi. The flat at Stuyvesant Towers had been locked up for another season, and with every mile flown towards old Blighty, I felt my homesickness disappear like so much toothsome _challa_.

Many tired hours later, we descended through the clouds into Heathrow. The seatbelts sign turned off, and a symphony of pings and whirrs filled the cabin, as everyone switched flight mode off their various whatsits. I whipped my own phone out, eager to see what missives my fellow Drones had sent to me during my homeward journey. The first notification that popped up was a voicemail message:

The strident tones of Aunt Agatha sent a rude jolt of terror through me:  
'The moment you haul your indolent hide back to London, I demand you come to see me at once. Lord Percy Craye and I have been having some very serious talks regarding that sneaky brown lawyer of yours. I think you will want to hear what I have to say.'


	11. Chapter 11

**22ND SEPTEMBER**

All my movements upon coming home were infested by the auntly spectre. The return to our beloved flat gave small comfort. Airing out the rooms did naught to clear the thick dread that had set up residence in my midsection. I was quite sleepless that night, jetlag making nary a dent in me. I dared not tell Reg about Aunt Agatha’s little portent. Of course, he naturally sussed that something was up. But I insisted that he not bother himself, as I clutched at my seventh cup of tea with both hands.

Upon the morn, I wasted no time in boldly riding into the mouth of Hell. I know Aunt Agatha to be an early riser, and so I was wholly unsurprised to find her bright-eyed and breakfasted, and ready to take audience with me well before nine o’clock.  
‘Say on, Aunt,’ I said, my upper lip firm.

‘Lord Percy Craye was charitable enough to enlist the services of that companion of yours, in his recent divorce proceedings. I was most aggrieved to hear of the paltry settlement he walked away with. Lady Sibyl was afforded the family’s Summer home in Provence, all of Lord Percy’s shares in the Virgin Group, full custody of the family dog, _and_ the air hockey table that Jeffrey Archer once passed out upon.’  
‘Probably not much good for playing air hockey on anymore, I shouldn’t wonder,’ I chanced, and was promptly silenced.  
‘Not only was that sorry excuse for a solicitor negligent enough to concede so much to Lady Sibyl, but he also committed an egregious offence in burdening Lord Percy with this…’

Here she turned to gesture at a kitschy ceramic figurine of a swan. The thing was inordinately massive. The fowl was depicted with its wings spread, about to take flight. Instead of epitomising sleek avian grace, it looked more like it was raring to act on a deep personal vendetta. Its bulging pink eyes followed me about the room. I noticed that the dog McIntosh had angled himself away from it, hiding his face beneath his little paws. If given the choice, I would rather have cohabited with Uncle Tom’s H.R. Giger floor lamp.

‘This was a gift to Lord Percy’s grandmother from Edward VII, after they attended a production of ‘Swan Lake’ at the Royal Opera together,’ Agatha continued. ‘Despite being a family heirloom, it has brought nothing but evil fortune. Several dignitaries visiting the family estate have been tripped up by it, leading to broken alliances and expensive lawsuits. And whatever room it occupies is always cursed. Easy conversations turn to vicious arguments, accidents abound, scandals are revealed. Lord Percy insisted that it must be unloaded upon Lady Sibyl in the proceedings. And your lawyer failed to deliver on that stipulation. Lord Percy is still burdened with the dreadful object. And given its reputation, he cannot even pay to have anyone take it from him.’  
‘Why not just destroy it?’  
My aunt looked at me as if I had suggested she dye her hair blue and change her name to Galadriel Moonbeam. ‘It was a gift from the King! Besides, it’s been valued at over thirty thousand pounds.’  
‘Ah.’

‘This disregard of Lord Percy’s instructions is no small matter. He was willing to let it slide, but I talked him round. Together, we have reached a very productive outcome. One which depends on your co-operation, Bertie.’  
‘Um.’  
She sniffed spitefully. ‘Lord Percy and I shall be issuing an official complaint to the Solicitors Regulation Authority, demanding that they revoke your friend’s legal license. Unless…’  
‘Unless…?’  
‘You never see him again, and settle down with a respectable wife.’

I scoffed the most dismissive scoff I could muster. ‘First of all, dear auntie, what self-respecting authority would unquestioningly disbar London’s best solicitor over a swan trinket? And secondly, your continued campaign of foisting your out-and-proud nephew upon some hapless filly is simply a wild goose chase!’

Her lips crawled their way into a sneer. ‘First of all, dear nephew, you grossly underestimate Lord Percy’s influence with said authority. He has a number of good friends on the Disciplinary Tribunal, ones who owe him favours. A single snap of Lord Percy’s fingers, and they’ll be falling over themselves to take your little playmate down. And secondly, I have been in talks with Miss Stephanie Byng. She is all too happy to take you on as a husband, and her intention is to announce your engagement today.’  
‘Stiffy? But she’s engaged to Stinker Pinker!’  
‘Not anymore, she’s not. The good Reverend Pinker made a deeply offensive remark about Miss Byng’s best sundress, and she broke it off. She has told me quite eagerly that she will overlook your myriad of faults, in the hopes of fashioning a respectable gentleman from the raw material. I truly look forward to seeing her mould you, Bertie. Excellent girl!’

I wonder, readers, if you’ve ever been swiftly plunged into cold water. I can recall several such excursions myself, most notably when Tuppy Glossop pranked me at the Kensington Leisure Centre, and sent me plummeting into the drink in full dinner dress. You’d think that that joint would have sprung for a heated pool, but there you are.  
It was warm for September, but a sudden chill poured down through me, constricting my blood vessels and seizing my vital organs.  
  
Aunt Agatha had spun an artful web, indeed. She sat before me, then, basking gleefully in my turmoil with all the bonhomie of a tarantula eyeing a singularly stupid caterpillar.  
‘Well, Bertie? What have you got to say to Auntie?’ She tilted her head, as if she was daring me to protest.

Protest I did not. The very next moment, I shot out of the room, obeying my instinct to flee. As I flew through the front door, I almost bowled over my noxious young cousin Thos, who only had eyes for his phone. (Wasn’t the little fiend supposed to be stowed away back at Eton by now?)  
‘Awfully sorry, Thos.’  
‘Bite me, Wooster.

Pounding the pavement of deepest darkest Belgravia, I wasted no time in calling Stiffy, desperate to hear her refute my aunt’s claims.  
She picked up after half a ringtone. ‘What ho, hubby,’ she teased.  
‘An explanation, if you please!’ I demanded. ‘Have you no sense of decency!? No loyalty to poor Stinker!?’

‘Oh, calm down Bertie. I’m not actually going to marry you. I’m just trying to exact the appropriate revenge on Harold… for that simply _ghastly_ thing he said about my sundress.’  
‘It couldn’t have been that bad.’  
‘He compared me to Susan Boyle!’  
‘Well, you should relish the compliment. The woman sings like a bird.’  
I had to tear the phone from my ear as she screeched her decidedly un-birdlike dissent.

‘But what is a false engagement to _me_ supposed to accomplish?’ I begged of her, once she had collected herself.  
‘It will make Harold jealous, of course! Once he’s good and fuming, that’s when you sweep in as the noble, self-sacrificing chum. You tell him that you cannot bear to see him so despondent, and though it breaks your heart to do so, you’ll reluctantly call it off with me, so that Harold can have me back. Of course, you’ll need to prime him about the appropriate peacemaking gifts for me. Some Manolo Blahniks, perhaps a Louis Vuitton bag or two.’

I pinched the bridge of my nose. ‘Stiffy, old thing. You seem to be forgetting one small detail. Agatha is orchestrating all of this to try and separate me from my own boyfriend! What’s it going to look like to Reg if you suddenly announce an engagement between us?’  
She took on a decidedly bored tone at this. ‘Yes, yes, Agatha filled me in on her little scheme. Look, you’re still friends with Florence, right? Lord Percy’s precious only daughter? She’s got the old boy wrapped around her pinky finger! A few words with her, and he’ll be calling the whole grisly thing off. And surely your Reg is smart enough to glean that our betrothal is just a sham. I’ve got it all worked out perfectly, Bertie.’

While I did not care for Stiffy’s blasé stance on the whole mess, her mention of Florence gave me a shot of hope. The lass has a steely sense of right and wrong, and a real thing for brazen displays of valiance. Surely she would take pity on an old pal in dire whatsits, and pull Papa’s strings accordingly. I made a lukewarm promise to play along with Stiffy’s plan, before ringing off and making a beeline for Florence’s converted loft in Shoreditch. I figured that this boon would call for a visit in person. If Florence looked upon my dumb pleading face, there was all the more chance of winning her support.

***

‘I’m sorry Bertie, but I can’t help you,’ was the flat response.

I felt my newly nourished hopes rapidly deflate within me. ‘But why, Florence? Surely you wouldn’t just stand by at such a monstrous attempt to destroy a loving relationship? A loving same-sex relationship! What of Em-El-Em and Double-Yoo-El-Double-Yoo solidarity?’

The lady sighed. ‘Daddy’s not so hot on all that any more, since Honoria dropped an antique elephant gun on his foot.’  
‘I said I was sorry!’ came Honoria’s rebuttal. (She was presently slouched on a wicker armchair, deeply absorbed in ‘Call of Duty’.)  
‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘That happened in the same room where he kept that old swan eyesore?’

Florence rolled her eyes at me. ‘The very same. Anyway, Daddy is completely under Agatha’s thrall now. That woman is a pox, Bertie. He’s out to lunch with her as we speak. Why do you think Edwin is blighting us with his presence?’  
‘Oi,’ oi'ed the young blister from the second wicker armchair – he was also absorbed in 'Call of Duty'. ‘I think it’s good that Daddy and Agatha are together. It means I can hang out with Thos more.’  
‘As if you boys don’t spend enough time together at school, torturing your poor house master!’ Florence shot back.

‘Maybe I can talk to Stiffy for you, try and reason with her’, Florence offered, ‘but she’s still very cross with Stinker. And she’s not exactly the most tractable person in the world.’ She stilled for a moment, contemplating her kombucha. ‘Maybe this will all blow over. Daddy and Stiffy are both temperamental, impulsive sorts. Perhaps they’ll change their minds about this on a whim!’ She made an effort to smile optimistically. ‘More tea?’  
I turned her down politely, and trudged back out onto the streets.

There are moments in life when a chap looks out at the immediate prospects of his future, and can do naught but weep. A few short days ago, I had been kicking up my heels and making merry in the company of good friends, revelling in wedding pageantry. Now, an awful, lonely future of matrimonial doom stared me down, and I felt grey and constricted in the face of it.

I kicked angrily at an errant coffee cup, and fell upon the first bench that I came across. I didn’t even know where I could go from here. Would Agatha have spies operating, checking that I did not return to Reg? Checking that I did not return to our home, and the life we had built there? What if I called him, or texted him? I dreaded to think of what he would say to all of this.

I am not too proud to admit that a few manly drops escaped from the baby blues. In one fell swoop, Agatha had ruined the best and brightest thing to have ever shimmered its way into my life. What if Reg had been a girl, and white? Would my aunt have then left us alone, and not conspired to rip us apart like this? I silently seethed at the sheer bally unfairness of it all.

I suppose I had been living on borrowed time. Compared to the hardships that other LGBT+ folk have endured, I had gotten off very lightly til now. I’d never had to live under fear of arrest, flee my homeland, or cut ties with my community because of who I am. It was all too fitting that just when my life was at its rosiest, the ugly beast that is bigotry would choose to strike, from within my own brood no less! It was certainly providing a clear reminder that people like Reg and I did not enjoy the same freedoms afforded so easily to others.

After letting my first raw wave of frustration run its course, I got out my phone and scrolled through my contacts. One name jumped out at me as a clear and solid lifeline.  
‘Uncle George? It’s Bertie… Would it be alright if I popped down to visit you and Auntie Jaipreet?’

***

‘More, Bertie?’  
As Auntie Jaipreet placed a third bowl of biryani before me, I rose bravely to the occasion.

In the cosy old stone kitchen of Wilberforce Hall, my Uncle George’s pile in Sussex, I found some respite in the form of friendly faces and an excess of carbs. As my auntie continued ladling out the goods, Uncle George patrolled the breadth of the adjacent drawing room, rambling away on the phone to everyone from Mr Seppings, Reg’s firm partner, to old Sir Watkyn Bassett.

My venerable kinsman had practically blown a gasket when I had imparted my tale of woe. His face reddened and his Woosterian sense of chivalry burst to life – not to mention the hereditary habit of breaking records on the decibel scale.  
‘That snake-in-the-grass sister of mine!’ he hollered. ‘I’ll be damned if I let her and that rotter Craye mess with young Reg!’  
Jaipreet had continued to nurse the bubbling biryani on the stove, sparing me a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. I knew Uncle George really meant business when he graciously turned down a bowl of the fragrant fare.

After I had managed to pack away another half-bowl of biryani, my uncle popped into the kitchen to debrief.  
‘Now then, young crumpet. Mr Seppings has promised to fill Reg in on the whole grisly business, and Sir Watkyn already has a few ideas to influence his colleagues on the Disciplinary Tribunal. Given that he’s a client of Reg, it’s unlikely he’d be called to the trial if Agatha tries anything. But in the meantime-‘

His ringtone wailed away, and he wasted no time in answering it.  
‘Agatha.’ His pupils contracted, his face turned a deep shade of plum, and Jaipreet tsked wistfully.  
‘Explain yourself, sister,’ he menaced. ‘What do you mean by pulling such a rotten scheme against our nephew!?’  
And he was off again, stomping back into the drawing room to partake in a screaming match that would put jet engines to shame. At the distorted blast of Agatha’s voice through the phone, a shudder shivered through my nervous system.

Auntie Jaipreet replaced my bowl with a cup of sweet and steaming ginger tea. ‘For your nerves,’ she advised.  
I obliged the good lady, taking a slow sip and trying to ignore the distant thundering of the mighty Lord Yaxley. It was then that my own phone pinged with a notification, from the scorned Stinker Pinker.  
Pardon me for besmirching a good vicar’s name, but it was hardly the most Christian missive I have ever received. I shall edit accordingly for the more sensitive readers:

Stinker: WOOSTER YOU &£@ % &@^ %#££!!!! CONSPIRING WITH STIFFY TO STAB ME IN THE &*#@€ BACK!!! WHAT KIND OF %@#&* STEALS HIS OLD CHUM’S FIANCEE!?!?!?

Self: I am so awfully sorry, Stinker, and I promise that this is not at all what it looks like.

Stinker: YOU TWO *#&@!%S DESERVE EACH OTHER

Self: If you will hear me out, I have just been roped into a complicated and most seedy scandal by my aunt, quite against my will, and have no intention of doing you any harm.

Stinker: &*#^%£ YOU

Self: Please, if you will allow me to explain all, I promise that it will offer you some clarity and comfort. My uncle is already trying to put things to rights, and stop my aunt’s evil machinations. Please just give me a chance to fill you in on what’s really going on?

Stinker: …oh, alright then. Meet me at the Nando’s in Ealing Common tomorrow?

Self: You’re on, old fruit.

Stinker: You’re treating me to a supreme peri-peri meal.

Self: Of course.

Stinker: And a venti mocha mudslide crush.

Self: I don’t think Nando’s sell those.

Stinker: BERTIE!!

Self: Okay, okay, I’ll bring one along.

Stinker: This explanation had better be good.

Self: Cross my heart. Pip-pip til then.

Stinker: Pip-pip, you &%#£.

***

I squirmed about in one of the guest room four-posters that night, checking my phone every minute or so, in the mad hope of any further developments. Stiffy had, earlier in the evening, posted a positively nauseating engagement announcement on her feed, which had mostly been met with replies of confusion and bemusement by our peers. The words ‘sham’, ‘beard’, and ‘%#&£’ had been thrown around quite liberally.

Mr Seppings is a reliable and solid chap, and I at least had faith that he would have explained everything to Reg clearly and concisely. My one frantic hope was that my man had been informed of the whole noxious affair well before seeing Stiffy’s horrendous announcement.

Throwing in my chances with Morpheus, I hopped out of bed and perched myself on a window seat that commanded a view of Uncle George’s sprawling grounds. Would Reg have likewise been sleepless?  
I dug around the paltry contents of my rucksack, desperate to find a better distraction. My hand closed upon something at the bottom of the bag, and I pulled out a dog-eared, very well loved copy of Marcel Proust’s ‘ _À la Recherche du Temps Perdu’_.


	12. Chapter 12

**25TH SEPTEMBER**

My old friend the Rev. Harold ‘Stinker’ Pinker has always been an easygoing sort of bird, as long as I have known him. I mean, when one has all the agility and poise of a woozy bulldog with tape on its feet, one learns through literal hard knocks to laugh off most of life’s mishaps.  
However, this was not the image he presented when I approached him in Nando’s, clutching a half-melted venti mocha mudslide and gritting my teeth.  
‘What ho, Stinker.’  
‘Mm.’  
‘You’re looking well.’  
He grabbed the drink from my hand, sloshing a good glob of it onto my shirt in the process.  
‘This had better be really good, Bertie.’ Here he took a menacing slurp.

I had thought long and hard about my appeal to Stinker, mulling it over on the train into town. My best hopes lay in aiming for the fellow’s soft, charitable heart, emphasising the desperation of a Drone in need, and my utter utter disinterest in anything remotely marital happening with Stiffy.  
His supreme peri-peri meal came and went as I relayed the pertinent details. As expected, I watched a whole cycle of emotions play out across his map: grey disgruntlement, surprise, indignation, lip-quivering pity, and finally a huffy sort of resolve.

‘Bertie, old boy,’ he clasped my hand with his own greasy mitt, ‘you have been the victim of some truly disgraceful treatment. I’m appalled enough that your aunt could bully you like that. But to hear of the depths that Stiffy has sunk to, using you as a threat against me! When she really had no grounds to break off our engagement in the first place!’  
‘Well… you know what she’s like. Perhaps it wasn’t the wisest thing to compare her to Susan Boyle?’  
‘Why ever not? The woman is a knockout! Stiffy only just had me watch “The Witches of Eastwick” the other week, have you seen it? Susan Boyle’s the sultry redhead who wore that crinkly low-cut number.’  
I blinked heavily, trying hard to rein in my aggravation. ‘You meant Susan _Sarandon_ , Stinker.’  
‘I did?’

On the bright side, I was but one botched surname away from beginning to clear up the chaos. If, by the end of the day, I could reunite the love birds, then the shadow of Aunt Agatha’s threat would start to blessedly recede. In a fit of gratitude, I would then donate a small fortune to Ms Sarandon’s current favoured charity. (Which one was it again? PEACUK?)

Stinker began booming out a robust, peri-peri-scented laugh, when my phone rang.  
‘Bertie, you idiot!’ shrieked Stiffy over the line. ‘Why did you go and jump the gun on me?’  
‘Hullo?’  
‘You weren’t supposed to speak to Harold yet. I intended for him to stew in his own remorse for a few weeks. Get him good and repentant.’  
‘How did you know that I’m meeting with Stinker today?’  
‘Agatha told me you were staying with your uncle George, so I phoned him to ask after you. Oh, the _attitude_ that man has, Bertie! One innocent little sham engagement and he gets his nose all out of joint. He had the nerve to call me a conniving witch! You’d do well to chasten him for that behaviour.’  
‘Was there a point to this call, Stiffy?’  
‘Only to tell you that I’m coming to fix up your blunder,’ she said, and suddenly the glass door of the restaurant swung open to admit the good Ms Byng, in the flesh.

Stinker looked up from his remaining scatter of chips, and knocked over the dregs of his venti mocha mudslide. I got the notion that I was caught in the middle of some spaghetti western stand-off. (A peri-peri chicken western stand-off?)  
Stiffy was the one to break the silence. 'Well, Harold? What have you got to say for yourself?'  
'Sarandon.'  
'I beg yours?'  
' _Sarandon_ , Stephanie. Susan Sarandon. That's who I was comparing you to. You know, that foxy redhead from "The Witches of Eastwick". I mixed up her name.'  
A look of delighted surprise burst onto Stiffy's face, but before she could respond, Stinker launched into a fresh tirade.

'But frankly, I now feel more inclined to compare you to Elizabeth bloody Bathory. How could you manipulate poor Bertie like that!? Not to mention conspiring with that awful auntie of his!'  
Stiffy was drawing back like a bewildered siamese. 'Now see here, Harold-'  
'No! _You_ see here, Stephanie! This whole mess has revealed a cruel, underhanded side of you that revolts me. Whence has gone the sweet, compassionate woman whom I proposed to? Am I to exchange vows in the eyes of God with someone who would so readily take her thirty pieces of silver to gain control of others? Well?'

He allowed Stiffy the chance to respond, but she just stood there, blinking and grimacing. He continued:  
'I'm just glad that I've seen you for what you really are. And you, dear girl, simply do not have the moral goods to be anything close to a vicar's wife.'  
Stiffy's face began to redden, as her dainty little features scrunched up into a wad of flesh and outrage.  
'You... ABSOLUTE BRUTE, HAROLD!'

The engagement ring was wrenched off her tiny finger, and hurled madly at Stinker. It hit him on the nose, and he did not flinch.  
'Goodbye, Stephanie. May God have mercy on your immortal soul.' He marched out of the restaurant, and didn't even trip over the front step.  
  
I felt a brief rush of pride for Stinker swell in my breast, until I was set upon by the woman scorned. 'This is ALL YOUR FAULT, Bertie! If you had just done as I said and not gone off on your own... I was planning on making Harold the Archbishop of Canterbury one day! I could have got into the Middletons' social circle!... And you RUINED IT ALL!'  
She flung herself down onto the booth, shedding mad tears. The few other people in the restaurant were eyeing me with no little disgust. One of the girls behind the counter clicked her tongue.

I leant towards Stiffy gingerly, aware that she may bite at any moment. 'My dear child... I'm awfully sorry that your plans have taken a turn for the pear-shaped, really I am. I had no intention of seeing you get hurt so badly. But... perhaps this is all for the best? Maybe a meek and mild man of the cloth is not the ideal mate for a bold, industrious lass like yourself... and who knows? The perfect matrimonial specimen for Stiffy Byng may be lurking right around the corner! Eh...?'

She paused in her heaving and burbling, and turned her face to mine. The sly little grin she bore did not do any favours for my already taxed blood pressure.  
'You may be right, Bertie... Perhaps I will be married yet. You know, _you're_ quite an impressive fellow, yourself. Your little blog, your little following on Youtube. Why, a woman with a shrewd eye for publicity could turn you into a first-rate influencer. One who would be sure to win the favour of the glitterati.'  
'Oh...?' I tired to avoid her increasingly manic gaze.  
'Perhaps announcing our engagement was a much better idea than I first thought! Why don't we get married for real? You know, considering that you are so sweetly concerned about my emotional equilibrium and all?'  
'But-'  
'And of course, it would make your Aunt Agatha so very _happy._ She won't pester you about marriage anymore, nor will she be compelled to ruin Reg's career!'

Just as I started to hyperventilate, Stiffy picked up her discarded engagement ring (presently sitting in a pool of semi-congealed grease), and crammed it back on her finger. Then, loudly:  
'Oh yes, Bertie, I _will_ be your wife!'  
She flung her arms about me, and the occupants of the restaurant burst into applause.

***

With the Damoclean cutlery being dangled so gleefully over my head, I had no choice but to let Stiffy drag me down to the registry office for a marriage license. I was mildly surprised that the girl had copies of my birth certificate and council tax bill at the ready. No doubt Aunt Agatha had prepped her to strike at short notice.  
'Shame about the 29 day waiting period, eh Bertie? Otherwise, I could make an honest man of you straight away!'  
When one cannot say anything nice, it's sometimes best for one to zip one's lip.

As I lugged my sad self back down to Sussex that afternoon, I contemplated what my looming domestic life with Stiffy would entail. I despaired over images of being trussed up to attend snooty, aspirational parties, running thankless errands, and enduring a constant rolling tide of catty criticism. I could only pray that she would not expect me to fulfil any of the more intimate matrimonial duties. That was a mental image which I dared not dwell upon.

Even given this sudden turn-up, a lone, stern voice in my head demanded that I persist. At the very least, the 29 day waiting period had bought me some time. (I sent off a silent, quick prayer of thanks to whatever dusty, long-forgotten patriarch in Westminster had invented good old English bureaucracy.) Perhaps Uncle George could provide some further counsel.  
As I let myself into Wilberforce Hall's back door, and its rustic old kitchen, I spied young Thos slumped over at the table, tapping away on his phone. The din of booming, decidedly familial voices reached my tired ears from the drawing room:  
  
'I have had it up to here with your milksop indulgence of the boy! Allowing him to continue to fritter away his life wallowing in deviation, like some overgrown child! It is well past time for him to adopt the offices of manhood, and Miss Byng shall be the perfect helpmeet to achieve this! Bertie is the true scion of the Woosters, and I will no longer allow him to disgrace our legacy!'  
'You care about our "legacy" more than you care about him! You're ruining his life, Agatha! Not to mention Reg's life - that young fellow has been Bertie's best influence!' Uncle George's voice was thick with a mix of exasperation and sorrow.  
'That foreign degenerate is not worth a drop of pity. He has dragged our nephew further down the path of perversion. If I had truly had my way, he'd be shipped back to where he came from, for his godless countrymen to punish as they see fit.'

A sharp slap sounded, followed by a stunned silence.  
'Dahlia...' Uncle George gasped.  
'I've had enough, Agatha,' Dahlia snarled. 'I never wanted to take sides, but by God, your overbearing cruelty has forced my hand.'  
Agatha said nothing in response, and Dahlia continued.  
'On that awful night, when we lost both our brother and our sister-in-law, the well-being of their little boy became our vital duty. In the years since, you have done nothing but attempt to wear down his spirit. These abstract, inflexible ideas you cherish about "decorum" and "respectability" are borne out of fear, not love. And with every ounce of strength I have in my body, I will make damned sure that you do not harm another hair on his silly blond head. As far as I'm concerned, Bertie is as good as my own son. And you, Agatha, are nothing but a bully, who I am determined to protect him from.'

My auntie's voice had cracked, the beginnings of tears evident. Something liquid and bittersweet bloomed in my chest, as Agatha drew in a sharp breath.  
'So it's come to this,' she hissed. 'The legacy of the Woosters, versus...'  
'The CODE of the Woosters!' roared Uncle George. 'And if you still insist on betraying it, then you can get out of my house!'

Not two seconds later, Agatha herself stormed into the kitchen.  
'Come, Thos...'  
We locked eyes. I did not blink, nor look away.  
'Make no mistake. I will pull every string I have to destroy that depraved brown lawyer.'  
She and her spawn scurried off into the night.

***

That night, I bore the full onslaught of two superior aunties, Jaipreet and Dahlia both. And I can't say that the coddling was not welcome. One plied me with tea and biscuits, while the other bellowed every curse she could imagine against Agatha and Lord Percy. Periodically they swapped roles, and I was audience to some truly enchanting Punjabi invective from Jaipreet.

'I spoke with Mr Seppings in person today,' Uncle George said, after gulping down an improbable slug of brandy. 'He is already preparing a case for Reg, one as baldly irrefutable as possible. If only we could trust the toads on the Disciplinary Tribunal. I went to school with a few of them - right nasty little slugs. They once framed me for their illicit cigarette breaks behind the playing fields.'  
  
My phone pinged, and I dreaded another strike of bad news. Reluctantly, I picked it up to discover a very curious message:

_Hey Thos, check out Daddy's latest feat of strength:_

Beneath it was a slightly compressed, poorly-lit video of Lord Percy going a. over t. on that unfortunate swan statute. Watching him sharply nose-dive into the carpet was not a hardship.  
I was about to reply to Edwin, letting him know he'd messaged the wrong Wooster, when a frantic knock came at the front door. Auntie Jaipreet rose to receive the visitor.  
'Bertram!...'

I sprung up from my seat, a million and one emotions doing battle in my heated head. Reg surged forward and wrapped me tight in his arms. His breath heaved and quivered in my ear. I clutched at his shoulders, overcome.  
After an unmeasured spell of time, I pulled back to look my man in the face. 'What if she finds out you've come? She's on the warpath, Reg!'  
'Let her do her worst. I will not let her keep me from you.'  
'But...' I was finding it a struggle to speak. 'Your legal license! She could ruin you!'  
He held my face in his large, beautiful hands. 'It's just a job. Losing _you_ would ruin me, Bertram.'  
For several long minutes, I could little more but weep and sink into Reg's embrace.

'By the way,' I eventually snivelled, 'Stiffy coerced me into applying for a marriage license with her.'  
'Never mind,' Reg responded, and for some reason I blurted out a laugh at this. He kissed my brow firmly.  
'You'd best brace yourself, young Reg,' Uncle George announced. 'It will only be a matter of time before a hearing with the Disciplinary Tribunal is announced, now.'  
'I shall be ready for it. Mr Seppings and I will be levelling their skewed accusations with every piece of evidence and legislation we can collect.'  
'Jolly good show!'

My phone pinged again. It seemed that Thos had responded to Edwin's video with a whimsical reaction gif, followed by a video of his own of Agatha being bitten on the nose by a disgruntled McIntosh. I decided to take this accidental messaging as a favourable omen.


	13. Chapter 13

**15TH OCTOBER**

I spent most of that night clinging to Reg like a sniffly fridge magnet, as the good man inventoried his game plan to Uncle George and Aunt Dahlia. I confess I did not absorb the finer details, but the gist of it seemed sound: The evil swan sculpture was a Craye family heirloom. The only precedent that obligated Lady Sibyl to accept it from her ex-husband was a vaguish clause in the couple's pre-nuptial agreement, something about accepting the re-allocation of posessions. Reg seemed confident that he and Mr Seppings would be able to pick plenty a hole in that damned document. Its various mandates could then be formally deemed just as feasible and conscionable as prancing around the Outer Hebrides in a mankini.

This was interspersed with more colourful DMs between Edwin and young Thos, bafflingly sent to my phone by mistake. Their banter and gif-swapping reached such a level of obscenity that it would have made even Claude and Eustace blush to their oversized ears. Even in the darkest depths of my own giggly adolescence, I could swear that I was never so beastly.

I returned home with Reg on the morrow, and flopped down onto our own cozy sofa. I could feel the tension in the corpus start to melt away like so much watery sorbet. Even though the shadow of Lord Percy still lurked, we were home, hosed, and most importantly, reunited.  
On that note, I clasped the man to my side and leant my head on his noble shoulder, snapping a photo for status update purposes. I gleefully informed my followers of our homecoming from New York, trumpeting out my unwavering devotion to one Reginald Mandeep Jeeves. (Although, I failed to include any trumpet emojis - ah, hindsight is 20/20, eh?)

Through the course of that day, I fielded a constant series of confused messages from Drones, chums, and other assorted cronies. They all seemed to convey the same sort of vibe: relief that Reg and I were still one happy unit, and bewilderment regarding Stiffy's little announcement of our looming 'nuptials' from earlier. I set all to rights, remarking to all and sundry that Stiffy was just a girl with a very quirky sense of humor.  
Readers, you may not be too surprised to learn that I was poking a sleeping jabberwock.

On the following morning, no sooner had I kissed Reg goodbye and drained the dregs of my coffee, that her vicious talons came rapping on my front door.  
Stiffy held her phone aloft, and rammed my own status update in my face. 'Explain.'  
'Well, Stiffy. It turns out Jeeveses are made of jolly stern stuff. Reg isn't afraid of Lord Percy, nor his scaly pals at the Tribunal. Instead, he declared that our love was worth far more to him than any judgement they could dish out. So I'm afraid that you'll have to rescind any 'Save the Date' orders you may have placed with the printer.'

Now, Stiffy is capable of quite the firestorm. But through bitter experience, I have learned that the times she is at her most lethal is when she adopts a sort of steely, austere calm. She lowered her phone and pursed her lips at me, declining to scream and howl and throw things.  
'I see. It's so nice to learn that love conquers all. Or, does it?' She grinned, and some of the receded tension in the corpus began to make a comeback.  
'You see, you believe that your Reg is beloved by everyone. I can't deny that he's a popular chap. But I have it on very good authority that not everyone is as daffy about him as you are. Some people, like Lord Percy, have been rather greviously swindled by him.' Here she inserted a strategic pause.  
'You know, that blog of yours makes for very interesting reading. I've half a mind to share its contents with your Aunt Agatha. That ought to wile away an afternoon, wouldn't you say?'  
I spluttered a bit. 'Whatever half-baked threat you're concocting, Stiffy, it won't scare us!'  
She took my hand and patted it with all the tenderness of a clammy prison warden. 'Just as you say. Cheerio, Bertie.'

***

And, just as predicted, the notice of the hearing arrived.  
The change to Reg's demeanour was instant and dire. If I could compare this Reg to the Reg I knew during our stay on Long Island, I would swear that they were absolute antipodes, with perhaps one common Jeevesian ancestor to connect them. He was all flint and brass tacks, and all I could do was prepare cuppa after cuppa for him as he and Mr Seppings devised their case. On good days, I even got him to choke down a sandwich or two. I recalled the early days of our courtship, when he had been the helpmeet who had fed my own negligent self up, with not a little wistfulness.

Speaking of feeding up one's beau, the night before the hearing itself, Mr Seppings was dragged back home to Golders Green by his husband Anatole (yes, _that_ Anatole, the one with the culinary empire built on shouting witty abuse at mediocre chefs. To be fair, I have sampled his cooking, and it is not so much food as it is a religious awakening). Anatole was determined that hubby should get a full nourished belly and a good night's sleep before facing the rancor of the Tribunal.  
  
So, given that the good chef's handiwork is empirically known to be without fault, I do not blame him for the unfortunate bout of gastro that Mr Seppings suffered in the wee hours of that night. I can only hope it wasn't the fault of the Tesco sandwiches that I had foisted on the fellow for morning tea.

We braved the gloomy October drizzle to arrive early at the Tribunal HQ. Reg was little more than a granite facsimile of himself. As we sat uneasily in the waiting room, I carefully touched my hand to his.  
He nodded stiffly. 'It is alright, Bertram. Though I shall not have an advocate, I believe I am capable of representing myself.'  
'Capable, my foot, you're bally well extraordinary.'  
I then sighed heavily. 'I can't help but feel angry at myself, you know. If it weren't for me, Aunt Agatha would never have tried to catch you in her web. Perhaps you would have been better off if-'  
'Don't you dare finish that vile thought,' he commanded. 'The life I used to lead was stoic and sombre, until you stumbled into it, blessing me with sunshine and music.' His clutch of my hand tightened a little. 'If the worst happens today, I will be a better man, rebuilding my life with you to brighten me. A better man than a stone-faced lawyer bereft of a songbird.'  
Well, there are some moments when a chap just has to take the chap he is utterly dizzy for, and plant a corker of a snog on him.

'The case we prepared in my defence is a sound one,' Reg continued, once he'd gotten his breath back, 'and all that is required is a confident and composed delivery-'  
At this, the door to the waiting room flew open. Stampeding in with the gravitas of a morally outraged bull-moose was the purple pompous pooh-bear himself: Roderick Spode.  
'Jeeves, I am to understand that you require an advocate.'  
'Ah. Well, Sir Roderick-'  
'No need to thank me, good man! I caught wind of your catastrophe this morning. I said to myself, "Roderick, the very notion of Uncle Watty's most trusted solicitor being chucked in the dock for some imagined error is an insult to his impeccable acumen - nay, to the legal profession itself." Now, I know we had our differences at Cambridge, but rest assured that I view you as an esteemed colleague, and every whit of my professional clout is in your corner today.'  
'That is... a very kind notion, but-'  
'Oh Roddy,' came a treble-pitched warble from the doorway, 'you're brilliant! It's ever so heroic of him to come rescue you, isn't it Jeeves?'  
Speaking of little birds and stone-faced lawyers, Madeline Bassett was presently gazing up at her boyfriend as if he'd invented Jammie Dodgers. 

The clerk came to collect us, and we all ambled back out to the main reception area.   
Of all the grisly, malignant mugs I could have bumped into, the mug that I then found myself confronted with was the last one I could possibly have expected; after my prep school headmaster, Genghis Khan, and the Marquis de Sade.  
'Stilton Cheesewright!' I exclaimed.  
He took in my flustered map, and the seedy smile that I so well remembered slithered its way upon his brick wall of a face. 'Wooster, fancy seeing you here.'

D'Arcy 'Stilton' Cheesewright was my upperclassman at Eton. I have previously regaled you with the benefaction and brotherly bent of my pal Barbie, who was in the same year as he. If you can take those fine ingredients and extract their Mr Hyde equivalent, you will find yourself with an accurate portrait. The blighter was a prefect who abused his power like a baboon entrusted with a rocket launcher. He took a particular interest in yours truly, always trying to usurp Barbie as my mentor in order to boss me around. What's worse, he held an even keener interest in the blond, lissom Wooster charms, and he proved to be very Mr Collins-esque in the no-means-no department.  
  
'What are you doing here?' I queried.  
'I'm representing Lord Percy at this morning's hearing. Frankly, I can't wait to rip into this Jeeves fellow and watch him sweat.' The very idea that Reg would ever so much as perspire was a low insult.  
'But...' I struggled to process this. 'I thought you were planning on becoming a copper after graduation. The appeal of the truncheons and everything.'  
'Lady law beckoned instead, Wooster. I gain far more satisfaction in prosecuting the scum of this nation, ensuring that the charges made against them stick.' He waggled his eyebrows at me in a truly revolting manner. 'Care to stay and watch a powerful man display his legal prowess?'  
I turned up my nose. 'I am here to support "this Jeeves fellow", _my boyfriend_ , and cheer him on as he parries every last one of your groundless accusations.'  
The smirk was wiped off his face, replaced by the eye-watering grimace that I also remembered well.

***

We entered the courtroom, like Childe Roland or Aragorn or that bloke that Ovid wrote about, sallying forth to their respective perils. The first thing that caught my eye was the unholy swan statue perched upon the elevated Tribunal panel table, glowering down at everyone with those bulbous eyes. Further discomfort was offered by the sight of Stiffy and Aunt Agatha sitting beind the claimant's table, whispering to each other. I managed to avoid catching their own bulbous eyes. Young Thos, too, was perplexingly present, DMing away on his phone. (Really now, where is a good truant officer when you need one?)

As these proceedings are open to public viewing, I should not have been as surprised by what I beheld next. Even in the doldrums of such a dark day, this Bertram was given cause to believe in the basic goodness of his fellow man.  
'What ho, Bertie!'  
My head whipped round, to find the seats behind the respondent's table packed to the whatsits with supporters: Aunt Dahlia, Uncle George and Auntie Jaipreet, cousin Angela, and a whole collection of supportive Drones.  
'We wouldn't dream of letting you and Reg go through this alone, young blister.' Aunt Dahlia patted my shoulder.  
'I did have to entice some of the Drones with a lunch out at Nando's afterwards,' Angela admitted, 'but please know that we're here for you.'

After a few uneasy minutes, a door opened at the back of the room. The Tribunal Panel began to march their way up to their seats, po-faced and lemony. Amongst the dour lot were a few faces I recognised: Major Plank, Sir Watkyn's neighbour who is a celebrated expert on military law and a keen rugger player; Mr Butterfield, a pruny magistrate who is appproximately several hundred years old; and not least of all the Tribunal Chair, a terrifying auntly artifact known as Dame Daphne Winkworth of Deverill Hall. She is an old bosom pal of my Aunt Agatha. One unfortunate Summer, she struck the young Wooster's legs with a cricket bat when I accidentally spilled squash onto her white Chanel clutch purse.

Once settled, Dame Daphne primly adjusted her tortoiseshell spectacles. 'This substantiative hearing by the Solicitors Disciplinary Tribunal, case number 151081, is now in session. The claimant party is Lord Percy Craye, the Earl of Worplesdon, advocated by Mr D'Arcy Cheesewright. The respondent party is Mr Reginald Jeeves, advocated by Sir Roderick Spode. The claimant recommends the termination of the respondent from the Solicitors Regulation Authority Roll, based upon evidence of unsatisfactory professional conduct. We now open the floor to the claimant party, to make the opening statement.'

Stilton rocketed up from his chair, and after a encouraging fist-bump from Lord Percy, launched into his tirade.  
'Ladies and gentlemen of the Tribunal. Earlier this year, my client employed the services of Mr Jeeves to manage his divorce proceedings. He had come highly recommended from a number of my client's colleagues, so you can imagine that expectations were high. My client's pre-nuptial agreement is a document that dictated the terms of said proceedings very clearly. Image my client's dismay when several important clauses were not only neglected by Mr Jeeves, but boldly countermanded! Case in point, the Royal Craye Swan.'  
He gestured to the monstrosity sitting just to Dame Daphne's right hand side. The ripple of cringing through the courtroom could have interfered with local radar signals.  
'Mr Jeeves was given explicit instructions that this object was to be transferred to the possession of my client's ex-wife Lady Sibyl. To this day, it still occupies its much abhorred position in the formal lounge of my client's ancestral home in Berkshire!' (Imagine Stilton's strategic pause here for dramatic effect.) 'Furthermore, it has come to light that this is not the first of Mr Jeeves' transgressions. In preparing for this hearing, I have come across evidence of Mr Jeeves perpetrating deliberate acts of professional sabotage, character assasination, and bald faced conflicts of interest! Tribunal members, I intend to propose to you that Reginald Jeeves is a man of poor ethical character, and thus not a fit and proper person to be included on the SRA roll.'

Of all the bally damned blasted dashed nerve!! My impulse to jump up and pummel the brute to a malleable sludge was only curtailed by Aunt Dahlia's hand on my arm.

'I call forth our first witness: Mr Lance Klein.'  
You may recall, readers, that this Klein twerp was the lecherous little oompa-loompa who notoriously misdirected a series of 'Dunstan Priory', the much-loved costume serial, filmed out at Sir Watkyn Bassett's country pile. On this day, Mr Klein looked to be several thousand cigarettes and Big Macs the worse for wear. And he had hardly been the paragon of peak masculine vigour to begin with.

'Mr Klein, can you inform us of any previous interactions between yourself and Mr Jeeves?' Stilton suddenly sounded like a cooing child therapist.  
'You bet I can, buddy. That nosy little punk destroyed my career! A few short years ago I was on top of the world, directing a season of "Dunstan Priory", and recommended by bigwigs at Auntie Beeb to be the next showruner for "Doctor Who". Then Jeeves runs to the owner of the estate, tattling some bogus story that I was harrassing the chicks on set! Next thing I know, I get turfed outta the gig with a criminal charge against my name. Now, I'm stuck with adult diaper commercials and short-lived webseries like "Punking with Claude and Eustace". And who's the latest Doctor? Some SJW chick with a second-rate rack. That travesty wouldn'ta happened on my watch, I tell you that.'  
Stilton tsked with great purpose. 'Fabricating a horrid lie to end a decent man's career. I ask you, is this the action of a trustworthy solicitor?'

Some of the men on the Tribunal grumbled in commiseration, but I noticed Dame Daphne's default scowl deepen ever so slightly. 'Thank you, Mr Cheesewright. I now invite the respondent party to come forth for cross-examination.'  
Spode cracked his hairy knuckles, a malevolent sparkle in his eye. I suddenly remembered the finer circs surrounding the whole affair. Prime of which: Spode's precious little Madeline had been a victim of Klein's depravity.  
It seemed that Klein remembered said circs too, for as Spode approached the witness table, the rat managed to shrink down to about a third of his already puny size.

'A lie, was it Klein? Tell me, just what part of Mr Jeeves' claim against you was false? The demand for several female cast members to remove their clothes under your so-called "creative control", or your unwanted propositioning of an unpaid extra, young enough to be your daughter!?'  
'You can't prove anything,' peeped Klein, who looked determined not to wet his pants.  
'Oh, but I think we can,' menaced Spode. 'Sitting in this courtroom right now, I count no less than half a dozen people who were eyewitnesses to your degeneracy, including one of your innocent victims!'  
'Is this true, Sir Roderick?' Queried Dame Daphne. 'I would invite said eyewitnesses to speak up to verify this information.'  
'Gladly,' squeaked Madeline, who popped up from her chair to laser Klein with a baby blue look of sweet revenge. 'I can confirm that that awful man is guilty of sexual harrasment!'  
'Me too,' I added.  
The echo of 'Me too' continued around the room most gratifyingly.

'Explain yourself, Mr Klein,' demanded Dame Daphne.  
'Aw, c'mon toots! I was just having a little fun with the gals, ya know! I mean, they act all offended, but really I think they like the attention. Women are needy! And these days, there’s a huge, unfortunate lack of respect for anything male!'  
It was admittedly quite fun to watch the worm wriggle under the auntly glare.

'It appears evident to me, Dame Daphne,' said Spode, 'that Mr Jeeves was performing a desperately needed public service in exposing the misconduct of this wee, dumpy chauvanist. He inhabits an industry filled with young, impressionable people who are ripe prey for such exploitation. It is the duty of any good practitioner of the law to see that justice is done.'  
I swear I could hear Dame Daphne mumble 'too right, mate' under her breath, before declaring: 'Thank you Sir Roderick. Mr Klein... you are dismissed.'  
The closing courtroom door smacked him on the bum.

Stilton was not licked yet. He huffed, shook himself, and punched a number into his phone. 'I would now like to present the testimony of our second witness. He regrettably could not attend the hearing in person, so we will be communicating electronically.' He held up his phone. 'Hello, Mr Stoker, can you please introduce yourself to the members of the Tribunal?'  
'Thank you, thank you, it's great to be here,' the vainglorious rasp on the phone induced a taste of barbecue in my mouth and a niggling of the scarred-over stab wound on my thigh. 'I am the loved and respected real-estate mogul, J. Washburn Stoker. The American people love me.'  
'Can you please tell us, Mr Stoker, of your association with Mr Reginald Jeeves?'  
'He's Crooked Jeeves! Don't you understand that? This is one of the most crooked solicitors in history! Such a nasty man! There is such tremendous hate-'  
'Uh, yes Mr Stoker. What disservice did Mr Jeeves inflict on you?'  
'He meddled in the development of what would have been the greatest landmark that the UK has ever seen: the Chuffnell Regis Country Club and Casino. Jeeves deliberately terminated the sale of Chufnell Hall to me, J. Washburn Stoker, and convinced its former owner to put in into the hands of Sir Roderick Spode and his despicable associates.'  
'Sir Roderick?' Dame Daphne lifted an eyebrow above the rim of her spectacles.

'Yes he did, and rightly so,' Spode replied. 'I helped to advocate and fund the opening of the Chuffnell Regis Wildlife Sanctuary, a site that assists in the rehabilitation of widlife and preservation of local ecosystems! A far more responsible use of the site than the gaudy tourist trap that that peach-faced poltroon would have built!'  
'Conflict of interest!' Stilton thumped his fist on the table in a flourish of zeal worthy of Jack Nicholson. 'the respondent's own advocate was an accomplice in this dubious deal!'

Reg tapped Spode on his mighty shoulder, whispering something in his ear. Then, 'Mr Stoker, can you tell the Tribunal where exactly you are calling from?'  
'From beautiful King's County, California.'  
'Where exactly in King's County?'  
'At an exclusive establishment that plays host to many high profile inmates - I mean, guests.'  
'Inmates?' Spode growled.  
Before Stoker could respond, the deafening blare of a prison door buzzer came through the phone. 'Alright Stoker, time's up, back to your cell.'  
'Um, gotta go.' The line fell dead.

Reg stood up, commanding the attention of the Tribunal. 'Mr Stoker was found guilty on multiple charges of tax fraud, abuse of power, and the improper handling of housecats. He is currently incarcerated at California State Prison. Furthermore, the sale of Chuffnell Hall was conducted in a throughly legal and above board manner. I believe Lord Chuffnell had sound ethical reasons to renege on his inital offer to Mr Stoker.'

I shall spare you all the sad and tedious particulars of Stilton's parading of both _~*~*Belliboo*~*~_ and Lady Florence upon the witness chair. The former started out somewhat strongly, claiming that Reg's advice to Randy Birnbaum had damaged her reputation in the online beauty community, but she soon got sidetracked waxing lyrical about her brand, and even managed to pique Dame Daphne's and Major Plank's interest in her new skincare range. Then, Lady Florence took one single look at Stilton and balked like a lioness at a pesky fly. She attacked Stilton's credibility as a barrister, his intellect, as well as his inability to grow a convincing moustache. Stilton's feeble claim that Reg had somehow indirectly harmed her personal relationships was laughed at scornfully. In the end, Lady Florence actually gave a passionate argument in support of Reg, before she stomped back to her seat, crushing Stilton's toes under her heel as she went.

It was clear that Stilton was desperate, clutching at every straw he could. But far from my confidence being bolstered by this, a horrid icy feeling was pooling in my tummy. This string of disjointed witnesses had some vague common connection that I had been struggling to identify. That is, until Stiffy turned in her seat to sneer at me. I then recalled her threat from earlier - about the contents of this very blog.

Before I could start dry-heaving, Stilton regained his composure to announce: 'I call forth the next witness: Mr Bertie Wooster.'


	14. Chapter 14

**17TH OCTOBER**

'Steady on! You can't just force me up there to testify against my-'  
'Mr Wooster, don't make me hold you in contempt of court.' Dame Daphne pressed fingers to her temple. 'I'd like to get this over with.'

I dragged my way up to the witness chair, despite the fierce protest mounted by my nervous system. I had no idea what sort of slick maneuvers Stilton was going to attempt on me, nor how my paltry wits could possibly deflect them. My statement could prove to be fodder for the great brute's attack on Reg. That prospect was sickening and terrifying. By the time I had sat down before Stilton, I was already quite nauseous.

'"Brutus, Judas, low-down lawyer". Mr Wooster, can you confirm that this is a character description of Mr Jeeves, as given by you?'  
'Uh...?'  
'In your blog post dated 10th July 2018, you described how Mr Jeeves intentionally put you in grave physical danger. To wit: "I could have died, Reg. In fact, I almost got gored by a rogue stag. And look at this godawful scrape on my arm."'  
'Oh. well, um, I did write that, but-'  
'Can you please confirm that this trauma was the result of the actions of Mr Jeeves?'  
'Now look here, Stilton-'  
'Answer the question, Mr Wooster.' Dame Daphne's scowl became decidedly pinched.

I sighed. 'Indirectly, I suppose. But Reg never actually intended for me to go off scootering in a rainstorm, he meant well!'  
Stilton shot a sneer at me. 'Indeed. And was it not less than a month later that you were the victim of a violent stabbing? One that, as you recorded in your blog, Mr Jeeves ultimately claimed responsibility for?'  
'Reg wasn't the one who stabbed me!'  
'Perhaps not, but the summation he gave of the incident is as follows: "I promised I would never put you in danger again." Is it fair to say that if it weren't for Mr Jeeves, the altercation leading to your assault would never have happened?'  
'You are right off the mark!'  
'Answer the question, Wooster! Was Mr Jeeves the ultimate reason for said altercation?'

I was under oath. The Code of the Woosters does not permit perjury.  
'...Yes.'  
I couldn't look Reg in the face.

Stilton looked ready to land the _coup de grâce_ , and that insufferable grin spread across his map. 'Can you please describe your relationship with Mr Jeeves?'  
'He's my boyfriend.'  
He slapped the table soundly. 'Ladies and gentlemen. This boy, several years the junior of Mr Jeeves, is perhaps his most hapless victim. He has not only published first-hand accounts of his lover's misconduct, but day-to-day has been Mr Jeeves' primary target of manipulation. Mr Wooster's blog is rife with examples of Mr Jeeves undermining him, deceiving him, and exploiting him for personal gain.'  
I rocketed up from my seat. 'How dare you suggest that-'  
'And of course, this naïve young fellow has been duped into blind hero-worship of Mr Jeeves, the classic textbook victim of an abusive relationship. To quote Mr Wooster's blog: "Love enacts a curious alchemy upon one's good sense... a euphoric loss of tact and sanity." It is here, in Mr Jeeves' most intimate personal relationship, that the true depths of his pathologies are seen. Should the Solicitors Regulation Authority reallly be entrusting the public good to a man of his underhanded and malicious nature? Imagine what further damage he could wreak if left unchecked: if vulnerable clients entrust him with their most painful legal problems, and he takes advantage of that trust, just like the poor creature that sits before-'

It was at this moment that Stilton was beaned in the back of the head with a superbly aimed cricket ball. Which of the observers had thrown it, I know not, but it had come from a generally Drones-esque direction.

The courtroom erupted into chaos. Shrieks of protest arose from Aunt Agatha's little clique, while the entirety of our side burst into rambunctious applause. Dame Daphne had blanched by about three dozen shades of pale. Stilton remained slumped on the floor - no-one seemed to be in a terrible rush to revive him.  
As I fell back into the witness chair, I caught Reg's gaze. Noble brow knit together, those bright sable eyes dimmed. I ached to chase away the dreadful pain that had entrenched itself there.

'Ladies and gentlemen, PLEASE! Calm yourselves, or this hearing will be adjourned!' Dame Daphne hollered. 'Could someone see to Mr Cheesewright?'  
As the legal clerk dragged him out the door, I heard the great primate murmur 'hello, Nanna...'  
'Lord Percy,' Dame Daphne continued, 'in light of this incident, I am inclined to- Mr Wooster, would you kindly set that that blasted gadget to silent!!'  
  
My phone had pinged, another errant message from young Thos. This one was a video, and I shudder to recount its gruesome contents.  
Peering out from one of the heavy doorways in Aunt Agatha's lair in Belgravia, Thos had captured a truly loathsome act taking place in the sitting room. Namely, Agatha and Lord Percy perched on the chintz loveseat, pawing at one another like wanton teenagers. The impulse to dry-heave returned with gusto. Of all the hardships that the fates have ever lobbed at me... having to see my most vinegary aunt rapt in the act of enthused tonsil hockey was easily in the top three of Wooster's worst woes.  
However, the detail which particularly caught my attention was the date stamp sitting in the corner of the screen: January 2017.  
'I say,' I I-sayed, 'didn't Lord Percy only separate from his wife last year?'  
'What are you babbling about?' Dame Daphne demanded.

I handed over my phone, accidentally bumping the swan statue. It scooched its way to the very edge of the Tribunal table, its heavy base hanging precariously off by a good webbed-foot-and-clump-of-clover. Dame Daphne's move to correct this was halted by her eye-bugging, jaw-dropping reaction to the heinous video. For all her imperiousness, I couldn't help but feel for the old gal.

'Lord Percy,' she said, 'can you please confirm the date that you separated from your wife?'  
The craggy old peer sniffed at this. 'That was September 2018. And good riddance to the noxious old bat.'  
'And your divorce proceedings commenced in February of this year, is that correct?'  
'Correct.'  
'Then, pray tell, can you explain this?'  
She held my phone up for the courtroom, playing the video. Once again, local radar signals likely went gangbusters over the tsunami of revulsion that followed.  
'The date stamp on this video pre-dates your separation by over 18 months.'

'A-HA!' Spode jumped up again, beaming and positively magenta with glee. 'In the Crayes' pre-nuptial, it clearly states in clause 1.4 that any act of infidelity by either spouse shall render the legal rights of respective spouse null and void! Fat lot of good Lord Percy has to demand his stipulations be met, when he can't even abide by his own rules!'  
Lord Percy sputtered in place. 'I... You... How DARE you, Spode!'  
The Tribunal members mumbled animatedly amongst themselves, and I risked a side-eye at Agatha. Interesting that she was so keen on having me tie the noose, when she herself showed such blatant disrespect for the sanctity of marriage.

My smugness must have been the spark in the powder keg, as it was now her turn to Jack-Nicholson away. She shot up to her full, imposing height, turning a colour to compete with that of Spode.  
'Where did you get that video!?'  
'Oh... dashed if I know. It was just on-line. Viral, don't you know.'  
Despite my usual low-key discord with Thos, I was now feeling particularly charitable towards the little pimple, and had no desire to rat him out. Even if the Code looks down on falsehood, indicting a child who has proven helpful is surely the greater crime.  
  
The aunt screamed. She paced and raved and flailed about like the most zealous classically-trained thespian, her ire positively Lear-esque in its grandeur.  
'YOU DESPICABLE LITTLE LOUSE! I had finally arranged things so that you would be unable to escape your familial duties, and as always, you've gone and ruined it all! I should have locked you up in my attic and forced you to marry Miss Byng under threat of life and limb! As for your disgusting ethnic gigolo, he deserves deportation and destitution for his part in your corruption! The plan to ruin him was faultless - I could have seen his reputation sullied and his career in tatters were it not for-'  
  
Her wildly flourishing arm came into contact with the swan statue, and from there it was a positively heart-stopping sequence.  
The thing was knocked off the table, primed to cause misfortune, as is its wont. But before it could give Agatha the comeuppance she arguably deserved, the chap who was closest to her zipped over to push her safely out of harm's way, and the cursed _objet_ smashed into a great splay of tiny, irregular shards of porcelain.

There are some jolly valiant heroes out there, in the great wide whatsit. Ones whose courageous feats lend traction to the argument that the human species, despite its flaws, is not so bad after all. Those who feed the hungry, cure the sick, and minimise their consumption of single-use plastic spring to mind. But no greater magnificence of soul exists than a man who can bear an onslaught from his bitterest enemy, and then instantly rush to that enemy's rescue.  
That magnificence of soul belongs part and parcel to Reginald Mandeep Jeeves.  
'Are you alright, Mrs Gregson?'  
'...I... I say, stop crowding me, you oaf.'  
'I'm calling a brief recess,' barked Dame Daphne. 'Someone get a broom and dustpan.'

***

As we milled about in the reception area, a blather of buzzing conversation met my ears: who the deuce sneaked in that cricket ball; blimey isn't Stilton as big a creep as ever; what a _mensch_ that Jeeves fellow is; I'll never be able to look at a chintz loveseat again; _etc etc._  
I pushed through the crowd of Drones, aunts, and other assorted rascals, to find my man, and latch my arms about him with force and abandon.  
'Reg... I would give the world if it meant you'd not had to endure all that.'  
'I have no regrets, my _chevalier._ The worst is over.'  
'You know, "oaf" is practically an endearment, coming from Aunt Agatha. You should be flattered.'

I then spied young Thos, sitting alone on one of the benches, still fiddling with his phone.  
'You know, young kinsman, you and Edwin have accidentally been sending your DMs to me by mistake.'  
He looked up at me with an ever-so-slightly quirked eyebrow. 'Really? Well, whatever. All that stuff we've sent is "viral" anyway. Right?'  
For the very first time, I shared a private smile with my unruly cousin.  
  
'Wooster?'  
'Yes, you little cretin?'  
'...What... erm, how did you first figure out that you liked boys? And, what did you do to deal with it?'  
I spied Thos' phone background, a selfie of he and Edwin together on a carefree afternoon, wreathed in blue sky and greenery.  
'Well, Thos... perhaps I could give you some pointers, when you're not within earshot of your mother. You could pop around to visit Edwin at Florence and Honoria's place one day...'

The hearing soon resumed, it was now the respondent party's turn to make their case. Spode burst into peak performance. Mind you, his opening statement got a little sidetracked, something about making Suffolk one giant sanctuary for convalescent badgers, and giving over the entirety of Leicestershire to the protection of rabbits and other lagomorphs, but he soon began calling his own witnesses. To my delight, Drone after Drone got up and gave an account of the various ways in which Reg had helped them - in their love lives, professional lives, and lives in general. These accounts were often given first-hand verification via the contents of this very blog. And all Stiffy and Agatha could do was sit there and grind their molars.

It had been a long and weary day. I think we were all relieved when the Tribunal members completed their reckoning, and Dame Daphne issued the following verdict:  
'Upon recieving the initial complaint submitted by the claimant, I was quite eager to give this case a thorough assessment, given the supposed gravity of the accusation. However, in all my years on the Tribunal, I don't think I've ever observed a hearing quite like this one. The claimant has made a pernicious attempt to discredit the respondent. He harbours not only a personal bias against the respondent, but evidently a truly appalling bigotry against his sexuality, his race, and his association with the claimant's social circle. The Tribunal has given due consideration to the evidence that has been presented, and the surprising events of this hearing. As such, the Tribunal has overwhelmingly determined that the claimant's recommendation of striking Mr Jeeves off the SRA roll is wholly rejected. The case is dismissed.'

The celebratory Nando's that chums and self then biffed off to was entirely my treat. But for all my needling, I never did find out who threw that fateful cricket ball.

***

The next morning, I felt a distinct abundance of larks on thorns and snails on whatsits - by which I mean the Ineffable was in Her heaven, and all was right with the world. I would scarcely have been surprised to have seen celestial beings donning the nosebag at the Ritz, and a certain thing with feathers chirping away in a certain nearby square. Old Man Trouble had attempted to sock Bertram in the nose with the right hook of auntly acrimony, and he'd ended up down for the count. In a word, I felt chuffed.

'Reg,' I said as I sprayed toast crumbs upon our bedsheets, 'I feel chuffed.'  
'I am gratified to hear it, Bertram.'  
'What sort of day is it?'  
'Overcast, with a current temperature of 12 degrees celcius, and an 80% chance of precipitation.' (One of Reg's day-to-day fancies is a ritual morning inspection of the Met Office website.)  
'Ah well, can't have everything, can we? Still, the sun shines from within these walls, what?'  
His eyes grew quite melty at this. 'Indeed it does, my star.'  
'Anything on the agenda, then?'  
'I shall enquire after Mr Seppings. The latest missive from Anatole is that he is on the mend, and has been able to keep down fluids since yesterday.'  
'Poor chap. I'd send a hamper of choccies and things, but I doubt that would do him much good.'  
'Indeed not, Bertram.'  
'Anything on after that?'  
His shapely brow wiggled infinitesimally. 'The remainder of the afternoon is free. I should therefore like to spend it in this bed, rendering your divine self into a recumbent state of ectsasy.'  
' _Very_ good, Reg!'


	15. Chapter 15

**27TH DECEMBER**

Now, then. I can practically hear the howls of disapprobation pouring forth from my readership. Certainly the backlog of unanswered, increasingly anxious comments I have sifted through is quite a clear signal. **  
**

I humbly apologise for the long gap between this blog entry and the last one, but I can assure you that it was not due to some beastly misfortune befalling the young master. In fact, the past few months have been quite a happy hive of activity. Allow me to catalogue below:

No sooner had things settled after the Tribunal hearing, when I was messaged by my old pal, Marion Wardour. She's snapped me up for the position of accompanist, assistant musical director, and alternate Kurt Von Trapp in an edgy re-imagining of 'The Sound of Music', to premiere in Regents Park next Spring. My recent days have been spent wrangling harmonies, co-ordinating Do-Re-Mi's, and pondering how the story will work set against a science-fantasy backdrop where Maria is a rogue mage-in-training. Best of all, for this production I am receiving a paycheque that is not comprised of Starbucks gift cards.

It turns out that all publicity is good publicity: The result of the hearing became the gossip _du jour_ amongst London's titled, tweedy elite for a while. Naturally, Reg was framed as the embattled and faultless prince of the piece, while Lord Percy's attempt to slander him (not to mention his infidelity) was roundly booed and hissed at. This saga attracted a healthy boom of business to Seppings and Jeeves Solicitors, who have been raking in a right horde of oofy clients ever since.

My cherished cousin Angela has left the nest of Brinkley Court behind to study at _Le Cordon Bleu_ , allegedly inspired by the hearty helpings dished up by Anatole. This has likewise inspired a marked increase in Aunt Dahlia sightings at _Maison_ Jeeves-Wooster. While I could never turn the dear old ancestor away, I would appreciate a few more evenings _sans_ the need to feed and entertain her. She can be jolly competitive at Scrabble and Mariokart.

And, throughout all this business, Reg has remained my steadfast and unfaltering champion. It astounds me a bit, to consider how well we continue to fit together, that the flow of our entwined lives just seems to grow more and more natural. He helps me sort out my troubles with a fellow Drone; I graciously edit my wardrobe. He brews a positively faultless pot of the bracing; I bash out one of his favourites from Debussy; and so on. It's a sort of easy harmony, which I never thought that a messy, frothy fellow like me could ever have achieved. But I could no more imagine a life without my Reg than I could without the breath in my lungs or the London drizzle o'er my head.

To that end, I resolved to spoil him right rotten this Christmas, unwisely spending the majority of my 'Sound of Music' dosh on a pile of gifts for him. For one of these, I trotted down to a pokey little boutique on Brompton Road, to parley with a wizened, bespectacled pal of Uncle Tom's known for his custom-made jewelry.

***

As per usual, Uncle George hosted the customary Christmas feast. Reg and I were cozily installed in one of the guest rooms at Wilberforce Hall, along with the rest of the Wooster mob. (Well, most of us, at least. Aunt Agatha and Lord Percy had made a judicious exeunt to Switzerland for a few weeks. I did spare a thought for the poor locals.)  
Auntie Jaipreet's tandoori turkey was surprisingly toothsome, as were the _peshawari_ naan-inspired mince pices. Add to that cousin Angela's _Bûche de Noël_ , not to mention several heavy side dishes, and I was stuffed to my ears by early afternoon.

As the light faded outside, Aunt Dahlia hopped up from her seat with an improbable sprightliness. 'Right ho. Reg, why don't you help Auntie Jaipreet and Uncle George clear the dishes? Bertie, Angela, come with me to the formal lounge. For Scrabble.'  
'But mum-'  
'STEP LIVELY!!' I'm pretty sure half of Northumberland pricked up their ears at this command. The rest of the family were spared, left to digest in heavenly peace.

My aunt set us to work lighting candles and arranging lurid floral bouquets on all the antique surfaces. Once she was content with the arrangement of roses and camellias: 'Bertie, go and change out of that masala-stained shirt. Put on the dark blue one, and please make sure it's ironed. Angela, pop that romantic opera playlist onto the stereo for me, there's a dear.'  
'Mum, you know all this window dressing isn't going to matter,' Angela said, 'Bertie could be dressed in lime green nylon at a roller disco. Reg will still say-'  
'Be that as it may, my girl, I'll be damned if I don't ensure that this moment is as perfect as possible. Bertie, stop standing there gawking and go change your bloody shirt!!'  
I fled upstairs, my heart thumping out a military march in my throat.

***

I obediently donned the fresh shirt. Before I returned downstairs, I dug about my rucksack, pulling out a neat velvet box. From thence I extracted the sleek platinum ring that I had picked up from Brompton Road the previous morning.  
As I passed along the hall towards the formal lounge, I spotted Reg outside, standing alone on the back terrace. Despite the relations expecting my return, I slipped out the side door to join him.

The cold was clean and piercing. A powdery blanket of snow covered the grounds. Reg stood still, staring up at the clear starry sky. Not wanting to interrupt his reverie, I gingerly padded up to his side.  
'How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank. Look how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold: There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st but in his motion like an angel sings, still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims.'  
'Eh?'  
'It is a famed excerpt from "The Merchant of Venice", Bertram, an overture by Lorenzo to his bride, Jessica.'  
'Ah. All that pound of flesh, courtroom drama stuff.'  
'As you say.'  
'Hits rather close to home, given recent happenings.'  
'Indeed it does, Bertram.'  
'No use dwelling on the past though, eh? New decade to ring in and all?'  
'I quite agree.'  
I shivered a bit. Something made me stay, regardless of the warm candelight and stream of arias that awaited in the lounge.

'Reg?'  
'Yes, my songbird?'  
'Would you say there is a tie that binds?'  
'Most definitely, Bertram. All of us are subject to the bounds of both love and duty. I myself am glad for it.  
He glanced at me briefly, and my throat went dry. I think the blighter was wise to me. I struggled to rally the poetic portion of the Wooster soul.  
'Well, that's good. Because, um, I do so like the tie that binds you. To me, that is. Like the moon to its... thingummy. And, er...'  
'Aren't you cold, Bertram?'  
Here he put his long winter coat about my shoulders. He treated me to his dark, tender gaze, and completely short-circuited what was left of my brain. 'I love you.'

I heard a light clang on the frosty stone beneath, and realised I had dropped the ring.  
'Ah!...'  
'Are you alright?'  
'Yes... fine...' I scuffled about, madly hunting for a tell-tale glint amongst the grime, 'just need to... _blast_ it... a-HAH!'  
I raised the recovered treasure aloft, kneeling before Reg.

His breath caught, and a distinct wetness entered his eyes. It took me a moment to catch up.  
'Ah... well, Reg...'  
'Bertram...' he choked, '...the knees of your trousers are filthy.'  
'Oh, yes, well. Will you marry me, Reg?'  
'Of course!'

Despite my previous sartorial mishaps, I have to say that Reg looked mighty pleased with that ring perched on his elegant finger. Our celebratory snog was cut short by Aunt Dahlia's shriek of delight from the doorway. I'm quite certain that they heard it down in Egypt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as always, an ebullient abundance of love and thanks for anyone who has been so kind as to comment/kudos/bookmark/read this rich goo. Love you all!!!
> 
> Rest assured that this is not the end of the Bertie's Blog-verse. For one thing, the idea of Wooster planning a wedding is too fun an idea to pass up, and I am quite sure I have more one-shots in me. I've grown quite attached to this AU. Just be aware that these may not come quickly, as there are one or two other writing projects that I have in the pipeline.
> 
> Please go and treat yourself to a cuppa and a biscuit on my behalf! Pip-pip!


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